


Two Mugs of Stale Coffee

by CytoSprout



Category: Furry (Fandom), Original Work
Genre: Art, Art Included!, Banter, Bisexual Character, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Finnegan has OCD and APD, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gay Character, Getting Together, Gibson has ADHD and Insomnia, Housemates, Humor, I’ve always wanted to use that tag UGH, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, Repression, Roommates, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, and they were roommates..., eventual road trips, serval - Freeform, tiger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CytoSprout/pseuds/CytoSprout
Summary: It‘s inevitable. Finnegan has to nab a housemate.That’s why he printed out flyers at a downtown store with an employee staring at him with a fake smile (the entire fucking time, seriously you think they’d at least cut the bullshit when he isn’t actively conversing) and hung them up around town—on electrical poles, on the sides of buildings, inside buildings—he’s on his last leg. Got nothing to lose. He only dealt with that dumbass employee’s creepy “serve you hand and foot” bullshit for a reason. One, very vital reason. Without someone else to help pay rent, he’ll be booted out of his home of five years by September. A month away.Beats asking one of his coworkers. Which he wouldreallyrather not do._____Finnegan and Gibson, the only candidate to be his housemate, learn to live with each other.
Relationships: Finnegan Luczak/Gibson Morris, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Black Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be sure to add any TWs here as this story chugs along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s pretty obvious these two are based off of one of my comfort ships, but I’m enjoying fleshing them out on their own! Thank you for giving this a try!!!

Finnegan’s coffee maker is old as fuck.

It sputters like a car with a dying, fucked up engine. Like a car that’s been taken on one too many trips in the open desert—sand all up in the machinery, in the tires, in the tubes. It’s a disgusting, dry sound, one he’s heard every goddamn morning since he bought the damn thing. He doesn’t know what he saw in it, other than the fact that it looked simple and affordable. Cheap. He’s in awe that it has lasted so long.

The smell permeates throughout the kitchen, curling into the serval’s nose and nearly lulling him back to sleep on his feet. He got up earlier today in case anyone came by. A moot decision—because really, who the fuck would come over at ass o’clock in the morning—but as long as there’s that 1% chance of someone knocking on his door, he can deal with a few heavy bags under his eyes. He has his coffee.

As soon as it’s done, he shuts off the machine and takes the cup to drag himself to the living room, plopping unceremoniously into his armchair despite the threat of the liquid sloshing out. The loveseat squeals and buckles under him angrily. His palms frame against the hot cup, molding around it in an attempt to warm himself, but only manages to almost burn his hands. He huffs sharply and places it down on a coaster resting on the low coffee table in the center of the room. The loud click on glass resounds in his ears, stark against the quiet hum of the A/C.

Despondent, Finnegan rests his elbows on his knees and thinks to himself, _yeah, I need new furniture_. All of his shit is either breaking or broken or worn. His couches are dented, his tables scratched, his chairs creaky, the fridge isn’t cold enough, his fucking stupid ass coffee maker spits at him every morning and he doesn’t have enough money to indulge in the good golden creamer shit so he has to sit in his fucking broken chair drinking fucking low grade nuclear black coffee like a fucking mouth breathing maniac. 

Finnegan pinches his brow. His job is alright, pays well, but he lives in a place where rent eats away at his income and leaves barely any morsels left for him to buy groceries and whatever else he needs. He recalls putting a full jug of milk back because he couldn’t afford it and decided that water from the tap was worth the possible health risks. He’s lucky he even has fucking fruit. 

It‘s inevitable. Finnegan has to nab a housemate.

That’s why he printed out flyers at a downtown store with an employee staring at him with a fake smile (the entire fucking time, seriously you think they’d at least cut the bullshit when he isn’t actively conversing) and hung them up around town—on electrical poles, on the sides of buildings, inside buildings—he’s on his last leg. Got nothing to lose. He only dealt with that dumbass employee’s creepy “serve you hand and foot” bullshit for a reason. One, very vital reason. Without someone else to help pay rent, he’ll be booted out of his home of five years by September. A month away.

Beats asking one of his coworkers. Which he would _really_ rather not do.

The doorbell rings, jarring him out of his thoughts, and Finnegan has to force himself to answer it. He’s just so fucking tired. He yawns and carries his coffee with him when he peeks through the peephole to find a tall man at his doorway, holding a familiar piece of paper. _Ah_. He catches his pinkie doing that idiotic thing, up on its own away from the cup and places it back down in line with the rest of his obedient fingers because he doesn’t want to be heckled by a complete stranger over something so fucking infinitesimal. Finnegan begins to regulate his own breathing on instinct, anxiety rising, the fill of his lungs deep in his ears.

When he opens the door, red and white greet his vision. The tiger looks up from the ground. Not by much though, since Finnegan is ridiculously shorter than him. His face makes a minute change as a toothy smile forms on his lips, revealing some natural wrinkles around his yellow eyes as if he has smiled his entire life. The tiger has wild hair pulled back into a loose bun (most likely too lazy to put in the work to do it correctly) and thick black glasses hanging from his nose. For some ungodly reason, he is wearing a wrinkled tropical shirt tucked into his torn jeans. His appearance is messy like he just recently woke from a nap, and his fur sticks up like he has a bad habit of rubbing his arms and neck when nervous. 

He’s doing it now, rubbing one big hand that has to be twice his size up his arm, ruffling the striped fur there. _For what reason do they have to be so big,_ Finnegan thinks a tad angrily.

“You Finn?” The man says, all smiles and charm, his voice raspy and lilting. 

His fingers twitch. For some odd reason, he craves to tap on his mug rhythmically to drown out his voice. The serval mournfully regrets sending out the flyers. “Finnegan.”

His eyebrows quirk up in a little tic, and he either elects to ignore him or doesn’t hear him. “Gibson. My friends call me Gibby.” He holds out his hand, and Finnegan, despite desperately not wanting to, thinks _fuck it_ and is chivalrous enough to shake it. The touch burns. He has a loose grip at least, so it isn’t too excruciating.

If Gibson notices his hesitation, he gives no indication. “I’m from waaay out of town.” He drawls and bends one of his legs to stand more casually. Finnegan pointedly _does not_ peer at the way his hip is cocked. “It’s been hell trying to find a place to stay. But luckily,” he unfolds the flyer as if to show it off, a grin creasing the corners of his mouth. Finnegan briefly wonders how many doors Gibson has knocked on and been turned away from if he’s holding up trash like a prize. “What an interesting place to advertise, by the way. Is it cause you’re a regular at that café, or do you want someone to vent your coffee troubles to?” His teasing demeanor falters when he blankly notices the coffee in Finnegan’s hand. “Wait, is that black?”

Okay. Gibson talks _a lot._ Finnegan pinches his own thigh and forces himself to be professional. “Yes. It is. I am glad I might be able to help with your predicament.” He decides on saying through his teeth. Somehow, Gibson’s lopsided smile widens. There’s a maniac glee to it like he is about to ask him to say that again just so he can tease him about it. Finnegan doesn’t let him, quickly kicking the door to distract both of them so Gibson doesn’t open his damn mouth. He squares his shoulders and opens the door all the way, stepping to the side so Gibson can enter. “Come in.”

The tiger’s brows raise, but otherwise, he pops his mouth closed with an amused smirk. “Right-o.” He quips, pretending that’s a fucking normal phrase people say as he saunters his way in.

Finnegan is just able to stifle a sigh before closing the door with a firm grip on the knob, suppressing the instinct to open and close it again. He observes Gibson walk around the flat, taking in everything. Finnegan follows behind him and takes him on a pseudo house tour, informing him of the rooms and facilities. The tiger seems to be invested in what he’s saying, but Finnegan isn’t sure. He keeps making small gestures and poses when told something. The serval adds _laid-back_ and _sarcastic_ to the growing list of things he dislikes about the man.

If Gibson is curious about why all of the things he owns are either falling apart or broken, he doesn’t ask. He simply absorbs what Finnegan tells him with tiny nods and hums formed low in his throat, pursing his lips in a show of interest. _Dumbass._

“Anything to say?” Finnegan questions, a tad fascinated with the way the tiger’s face keeps wrinkling in short bouts. 

“I can see you hitting every single electronic you own to try and get it to work,” Gibson comments, keeping a straight face somehow, “so, yeah! A guy like me can live here no problem.”

Finnegan stares incredulously up at the ceiling, hoping to grasp some semblance of patience. No luck. “We haven’t even gotten to the paperwork yet,” he says roughly through an exhale. 

“Paperwork.” Gibson mutters somberly. “Of course there’s paperwork.”

“Are you an adult or a teenager that stumbled his way into my apartment? Come here,” The serval orders, terse and authoritarian, and trots towards the living room. He thinks he catches a snort behind him, but that could have just been the pipes settling. They are always groaning sporadically at random times of the day.

The tiger follows languidly behind, dragging his feet across the dirty carpet littered with stains of varying shades and sizes Finnegan doesn’t dare to think too hard about. Finnegan is already on the loveseat gathering the papers from the side table drawer when Gibson hovers at the hallway door frame. “ _Why_ is there paperwork for this?” He bemoans.

“Because I need to make sure I’m not letting a psycho be my housemate,” he snaps. “Also, it’s just common procedure. You didn’t expect me to say first come first serve, did you?” Gibson sits down onto the big squeaky couch, mollified. “Just think of it as an interview.”

“Aw, man.” Gibson hums and casually picks at the buttons on his shirt. “I would’ve worn one of my better shirts if you’d‘ve included that in the ad.”

Finnegan’s filter falls away from him at mach speed when he asks with sincere honesty: “Do you _own_ any better shirts?” 

The tiger’s eyes widen before a laugh tumbles out of his mouth. Finnegan doesn’t know why, since he very bluntly insulted the man’s wardrobe. Gibson tilts back, putting more of his weight into the protesting furniture with a crooked smile. He spreads his legs comfortably, and Finnegan forces himself not to react negatively to the display. “Yeah, I’ve got one with tiny hot dogs on it. With little mustard and ketchup bottles.” 

His smile only appears to get wider the longer Finnegan stretches the silence in response to that. The thing is, Finnegan can see him in it so clearly it’s revolting. “That answers my question,” he breathes.

“Wait, good or bad?” Gibson asks, ready to pull another joke out of his ass.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Finnegan shifts the conversation and sits up straight, “I’m gonna interview you now. Alright?”

Gibson nods and kneads at the couch armrests, looking innocent. 

“Okay.” He sighs and adopts a professional persona. “First question. Tell me your daily schedule.”

“...Uh.” Gibson stalls, nonplussed.

“Like when you eat? Take a shower? When you are out of the house, generally?”

The tiger’s eyebrows hit his hairline comically. “Do you really need to know how often I shower? Is that, like, uh, a common question asked on housemate agreements?”

“No. That’s just me.” Finnegan sighs. “I’m... particular.”

Gibson just grins, regarding him with hedged mirth. “I could tell by the way your face crumpled in on itself when I offered to shake your hand.”

Finnegan doesn’t want anyone to know about his... tendencies, due to weird looks or comments, but the way Gibson says it so plainly makes a jolt of nervous energy climb into his hands. His fingers twitch on his bad knee as he orients himself, forcing down the nerves. 

“Just tell me.”

Gibson backs off. “I, uhm... don’t have a whole schedule for that shit, Finn. It fluctuates.”

 _Finn_. A sharp breath leaves him in aggravation. “What—What do you mean. Do you mean for everything I listed, or—?”

“Yeah, like, uh... Sometimes I eat breakfast, sometimes I skip it because I wanna sleep in until 5 pm. I get up to buy midnight sweets if I’m feelin’ it. Have you ever had cookies during the devil’s hour? Magical shit, Finn.”

His nose scrunches in irritation, and he’s just barely able to not bare his teeth. “ _Finnegan_.” 

“Uh-huh.” Gibson replies dismissively, scratching behind his own ear.

After he takes a moment to not jump across the table to strangle him with his stupid bright colored shirt, the information sinks in. “That’s...” He finds himself speechless. “Showers?”

“I forget to?” Gibson shrugs nonchalantly. “Maybe every other day if I remember. As for the out-of-house time, not much? Most of the stuff I do I can work on at home.”

The silence floods back as Gibson’s leg bounces. Finnegan gently places down the form, the pen making a small click against the glass of the table, which earns a curious look from the tiger. He stares back blankly.

If this is what all of Gibson’s answers are going to be, it’s not worth the effort to write it down.

“Your job?”

He snaps his fingers. “Glad you asked. I actually used to work for a little music store that sold old records and tapes. Hand-me-down stuff.”

“You said _used_ to?”

“Yeah, I got fired. ‘S sort of why I’m here. Had to move.”

Finnegan doubts that’s the real reason, giving him a dubious look. The tiger refuses to give much away—his expression is careful to not indicate anything. “Do I even want to know?”

Gibson idly fiddles with the torn fabric on his pants, and Finnegan _doesn’t_ stare the way his legs are still spread out thoughtlessly, thank you. “Trust me, it’s a neat little story about a few gallons of pickle juice and a very powerful shirt launcher, but I think talking about it would run this little talk longer than it needs to.” He says with a straight face, completely casual. “But hey, I still have those nights where I do a podcast or perform at a bar, so life isn’t that bad.”

...He’s not even going to take time to unpack any of that. He does not have the brain power to weather what that convoluted story would entail. “Perform what?”

“I love to belt it out on a rock guitar? Or a regular one if I’m in the mood. They’re both in the car.” He says, pointing with his thumb at the sidewalk outside.

Great. Loud instruments. That’s the last thing he needs for his sensitive fucking ears.

Gibson must be an avid mind reader. He raises up his hands in supplication. “If you don’t want me practicing, that’s cool. I can even search for another place to live while I’m here, so this obviously doesn’t have to be a permanent thing. I’m like moldable clay, dude.”

Finnegan sighs. “You’re desperate, aren’t you.”

“Extremely.” Gibson admits grimly.

Finnegan only just clocked it, but Gibson looks extremely tired. The bruises under the tiger’s eyes are enough to give his own a run for their money. That actually might be why he is such a mess at the moment; wrinkled clothes and disarranged fur. He wonders why. What kept a jovial man like him awake? He doesn’t have enough information, but still, he looks pitiful. Probably much like himself, if he were to guess. 

His fingers brush his cup that has waited on the table for a while now.

It has grown cold during their conversation. He does not bother drinking it.

His hands curl into fists, hugging each other as he brings them against his mouth. He closes his eyes and releases a whistle of air through his small nose as he slants forward, elbows connecting to his knees like magnets. 

The weight of Gibson’s desperate gaze robs him of opening his eyes to stare back because he understands the tiger would see. He would parse that Finnegan has no one else to turn to, how out-of-body he feels in the utter terror of losing every piece of square inch of his apartment he has. For what has he tirelessly worked a job he hates so long for? Scraps? Everything he owns is scraps. The apartment is the only thing he has that he’s genuinely proud—or, fond of. It has been his home for years. He got here on his own, from the help of no one else. He _toiled_ for it, and now it’s going to be torn away from him like ripping off a week-old band-aid. So flimsy. So easy. How is it still sticking at all?

No one else has come by. Gibson is the only one that’s been interested. The serval has two weeks left before he’s punted onto the street. His broken coffee maker would be cradled in his arms akin to a bundled child, his measly amount of personal items scattered on the soiled concrete, billowed around him like a swathe of fragile autumn leaves caught in dry wind. One step and another belonging of his would be broken. Two, and he’d realize he had absolutely nothing at all, as fleeting as the days he marks on his calendar with red sharpie like a countdown.

He dimly hears Gibson’s chair squeak awkwardly, like he’s a million miles away. Muffled.

No. He wouldn’t let everything just _end._

Finnegan looks upon him properly once he opens his eyes again. 

Gibson’s staring right back, having patiently waited on bated breath for Finnegan to respond as if he were catatonic, swiveling his thumbs in circles around each other anxiously. Vulnerable. Finnegan has the vague notion that Gibson isn’t often straightforward—his bluster and humor satisfactory distractions. But now, he is regarding Finnegan silently with a slight frown. _How often does this man frown?_ He thinks listlessly to himself. There is such a blatant discrepancy in the way his cheeks crease in response to the down curl of his lips. He had had laugh lines earlier. 

Even if he would have to listen to the tiger talk into a microphone at 3 am or practice an instrument at 7 pm, he would rather have that than lose it all.

Even if he would have to remind him to shower or take care of himself and clean up after him (since god knows that any man that dresses like _that_ is the _furthest_ thing from tidy), _he would rather have that than lose it all_.

_No one else is coming. He’s your only chance at normalcy._

Even if it is him.

Even if...

...

“Alright.” Finnegan says, acerbic. He sits upright as Gibson mirrors him; in shock, he surmises. “Do you have a place to stay in the meantime?”

“Er,” Gibson sputters, dumbfounded, “I mean. I have to disclose something?”

“Which is?”

Gibson squirms. “I’m,” he croaks, “living in my car.”

A moment.

Another.

Finnegan answers vehemently, vulgarly, as if preordained: “You’ve gotta be _fucking_ kidding me.”

c[_]

So, Gibson stayed in the guest room.

(“Are you actually serious???” Gibson asked in a high tone as he was shoved.

“ _Yes_ —christ’s sake.”)

Finnegan had to wash the sheets and make the bed (and maybe shove some boxes into a nearby closet, because that room had been used as a makeshift attic for all this time), and told Gibson that he could use his restroom to take a shower and brush his teeth with the spare toothbrush he had in the cabinet. It might have been a smidge past noon, but Gibson looked so haggard it was starting to get on his nerves. 

Gibson only shook his head with that small, charming smile of his, acting like Finnegan was being ridiculous. But he accepted, and after a long shower (he’d have to deal with the water bill too, fuck) he nestled up into the fresh sheets and promptly knocked out. Gibson carries his clothes with him in the trunk of his car, so he thankfully didn’t stretch out any of Finnegan’s shirts. 

_What? Sue him, okay!?_ There was no way Finnegan was just going to let him sleep in a fucking car with bags like that when he looked so fucking miserable. He’s a better host than that! He’s not all cynical fury and spitfire! He can care!

Finnegan paces quietly in the kitchen after having poured out the coffee and cleaning the cup (placing it neatly with the other organized cups inside the cupboard), attempting to figure out what type of food would be good for a sleep deprived person with a weak stomach. He does not have a state-of-the-art phone or anything so fancy as a touchscreen, so he has to use his head. He’s sure broth is good. Soup isn’t bad. He can do soup. Maybe some bread with cheese. Gibson won’t get weird about it if Finnegan makes food for him, right? He isn’t sure when the tiger last ate.

The fridge isn’t stocked. He’ll have to go to the store.

The serval stops dead in his tracks and groans weakly under his breath. Fuck. He probably has enough money to stock up on cans. Probably. He wishes he could make the good stuff.

...Maybe he can.

He softly sneaks into his room and puts on socks and shoes, grabbing his wallet and keys on the way out, gingerly closing the front door as quietly as he can.

Is it a good idea to leave a complete stranger in his house?

Eh. 

He only has garbage to steal anyway. He won’t die without his TV. 

On the way to the store in his century old car with peeling paint, Finnegan ruminates.

His filter is broken. He’s known this ever since middle school. The kids avoided him, giving him a wide berth in the hall when he passed—some bumped harshly into his shoulder with a sneer. He understands he comes off as rude when he doesn’t mean to. He’s made people cry with insignificant little comments that outwardly sound vitriol. He doesn’t _like_ that he does this, but he can’t seem to help himself when someone teases him about his appearance or says something incorrect. It comes flooding out without his permission. 

_You don’t mix cleaning chemicals together, for god’s sake. Do you want to die you fucking moron?_

_Christ that is not how you’re supposed to tie a tie, you’re useless._

**_No_ ,** _that is not how the USPS works. Oh my fucking god._

That’s why, when he cursed at Gibson’s face offensively while trying to be professional, he wasn’t expecting belly-deep laughter. He flinched at himself and prepared for Gibson to leave or at least shut that shit down with a remark of his own. But.

Gibson had laughed. Fucking guffawed, even. The look on the serval’s face was probably priceless to Gibson, because he just cackled harder after looking at him, tears welling in his eyes when he put all of his weight into the chair. As the tiger’s shoulders shook in laughter, Finnegan dumbly sat there, witnessing him lose it in a bewildered daze. Sure, when he made fun of his shirts and called him a teenager earlier Gibson had brushed it off with a bark of laughter and a chuckle, but Finnegan didn’t think he actually found any of the insults _funny._

It’s sort of... nice.

Finnegan bangs his head on the steering wheel, and his car blares a weak honk. People turn their head curiously at the noise, because he’s now parked in the grocery store parking lot.

How long had Gibson lived in his car?

How will Gibson even pay to stay with him? 

Well. He’ll figure everything out after Gibson eats his fucking amazing soup that Finnegan will put every ounce of effort into to show off. Fuck life and fuck his wallet. 

He’s got this. 

c[_]

It’s all under a total of $25. 

He picked quarters from his car and tucked them in his pocket just in case. But to his surprise, he has enough. He slumps at the self-checkout, relieved that it wasn’t more. It’s his reward for not splurging on drinks.

He carries the two resulting bags in his elbow and sets them aside when he’s back in his car. The serval glances at the clock on his dash. It’s only been an hour since he left his apartment. Hopefully Gibson will be asleep for a few more—he doesn’t want him to wake up in the middle of Finnegan cooking with an apron on like the spitting image of a housewife on the cover of a magazine from the 1950s.

After honking at someone for pushing him into a turning lane and cursing loudly out of his window, because YES he has road rage because that fucker DESERVES IT, he pulls into the apartment complex and parks, scrambling with the groceries and running up the stairs. He jiggles with the lock for a second before remembering himself and quietly entering. He peeks from around the door then sneaks in like he’s about to rob himself blind. Ridiculous. 

Gibson isn’t anywhere to be seen. He must still be asleep. 

At least he has the chance to open and close the door a couple of times like he wanted to when Gibson first entered. The finicky energy inside of him quells a bit. 

Finnegan elects to put everything on the kitchen table and drag everything else out that he needs to get to work. 

See, Finnegan can _cook._

While yes, he does follow the eclectic recipes that he has hoarded over the years to a T, he can also measure any ingredient by using his eyes alone with frightening precision. 2 cups of mustard? A tablespoon of white vinegar? A teaspoon of thyme? Not a fucking problem. He’s a fucking chef extraordinaire. 

It’s a talent that’s sadly wasted on him due to his inability to afford anything, though.

Good thing he’s using it for _something_. He ties the apron expertly around himself as his eyes take on a determined shine. Time to fuck shit up.

c[_]

Gibson awakes to the smell of cream and garlic. It’s heady and, to be frank, absolutely heavenly. 

He’s groggy and unfortunately still out of it, and his body hasn’t caught up with his surroundings yet, so a memory flies into his head all on its own; one that leaves him hesitant to get up from the sheer gut-punch nostalgia it gives him. He remembers his parents cooking together, his father doing the mincing and his mother controlling the heat as they maneuvered around the kitchen, nearly dancing with the way their hips played off of each other. Gibson could always tell when they were cooking something based on the smell that wafted in from under his door, but mostly it was the lighthearted giggling and muted conversations he could hear through the walls. Sometimes the music would wake him up—he vaguely recalls ABBA being blasted one morning, and Gibson opened his eyes at the muffled sound of his mom belting it to _Lay All Your Love on Me_ as his dad laughed—and he’d just lay there and listen with a small smile on his teenage face, his chest bursting with how lucky he was that they had chosen _him_ to share their life with. 

Eyes burning with the sudden urge to cry, Gibson roughly swipes his arm over his face and manages to sit up with a reaffirming sharp inhale.

Right, he’s not home.

The boring off-white walls of Finnegan’s guest bedroom causes his to sigh to turn into a groan. Fuck, that’s right. It’s a miracle Finn hasn’t kicked him out already for being a practical stranger nuzzling into his fresh sheets and sleeping like an overgrown cat (hah) for half of the day. Still, he is clean, which is such an incredible feeling. When he stumbled eagerly under the stream of the shower head, he ran his nails through his oily fur like a rake tilling soil and watched absently as the soapy bubbles washed down the drain. He licks his teeth and hears them almost squeak with how brushed they are.

Gibson isn’t one to turn down a hot meal—not since he started living on his own, he misses his parents’ cooking with the entire depths of his being—but it’s strange to him that Finn would be preparing something. For _him._ Again, a complete fucking stranger. All he has had since he was kicked out of his flat is take-out. The last thing he wants is to blow his money inside a restaurant; which, with all due respect to the waitresses and waiters that have to deal with “middle class” douchebags asking why their well-done steak is _well-done_ , no thank you.

Maybe Finn is getting a head start on how they’ll work around each other when he accepts Gibson as a housemate. 

He shakes his head. _Alright, don’t get ahead of yourself, champ._

Gibson yawns and wryly notices he unwittingly kept his day clothes on when he fell asleep. If they weren’t wrinkled before, they are now. He’s got on another colorful button down, one with little piña coladas—which, considering how taken he was with them as a young adult (the reason his IQ dropped by 50, he likes to joke), doesn’t seem appropriate. He’s stuck on the choice to throw it out or not, because it has little rats swimming in the alcohol with little pool floats, sunglasses, and tiny umbrellas. _Do you see my problem? It’s funny as shit._ He rationalizes in his head to no one in particular.

The tiger’s feet are numb with static when he stands. From nerves, probably.

He has to find out if Finn actually cooked something or if it’s phantom smells from when he was younger. Wow, that’s kind of a pathetic thought.

He unsteadily ties up his hair into a messy bun and grabs his thick glasses from the side table. He quietly opens the door, hoping not to disturb Finnegan, and sneaks through the hallway towards the kitchen where the smell appears to originate. 

He’s just putting his glasses on as Finnegan’s caramel eyes dart up in his direction after he lets out a small noise from almost poking his own eye out, and, man. A discarded apron that says “I’ll Feed All You Fuckers” is laying over one of the island chairs, _holy fucking shit_. He’s suddenly very petulant over the fact that he missed the sight of Finn wearing it. He can barely imagine a serious person like him wearing one. _Wait, maybe that’s why he wore it, cause he’s serious about cooking me something and not getting anything on himself, oh my god. That’s so cute what the fuck._ What’s more jarring is the abrupt image of Finnegan holding a “#1 Boss Bitch” mug like a wine mom. He’s able to shove down the laugh that thought brings before Finnegan gives him a scathing glare that says _don’t talk about the apron._

“Uhh, did you...?” Gibson trails off on the opening question.

Finnegan’s mouth twists, and he hesitates for some odd reason. He openly rakes his eyes up and down Gibson’s frame, which, fine? Okay? He probably looks more like a mess than before, but that gives him no reason to stare. Gibson raises a twitching brow in response, but Finnegan turns his head away before he can open his mouth again to comment _why the fuck do you look like you want to put me through a car wash without the car._

“...Yes,” Finnegan confirms after that moment, hastily standing up and gunning for the stove with a weird energy. Gibson notices the deep pan of something on top of the right eye of the stove covered with a lid in a failed attempt to keep the heat in. He briefly wonders if Finn already ate. “Sit down—I have to heat it up. I thought you’d be awake hours ago.” He grumbles.

Gibson watches him scramble to turn on the eye with building interest. “I nap heavy.”

“I didn’t know you’d sleep through the entire month of August.” Finnegan snarks.

 _Fuck, he’s so fun._ “You were basically shoving me into bed. Don’t shame me for taking as much time as possible to enjoy the fresh sheets you so _kindly_ washed for me, Finn.” Gibson replies with a put on smirk, his mouth running away from him again.

Finnegan’s face does a funny thing as he moodily frowns back at Gibson, and his big ears fold back. Gibson observes them, bemused, admiring how emotive they are compared to the minute way his eyes scrunch. “Alright dipshit, if you’re gonna make fun of my hospitality, the least you could do is sit the fuck down like I asked.”

He shrugs and plops into one of the island chairs submissively (next to the iconic apron), a low laugh settling comfortably in his throat. 

There’s a moment of Finnegan nervously rambling about what he made, going into detail about how he cooked it, and that gives Gibson ample time to zone out and think about the serval determinedly stirring food in the pan in front of him.

When he first laid eyes upon Finnegan, his immediate thought was: _Oh wow, you’re short, buddy._ The feline only reaches up to about Gibson’s chest, which is delectably funny with the potential for _so many incredible jokes,_ in his personal opinion. The short man looked ready to either slam the door in his face or keel over from utter shame, and neither choice seemed acceptable if Gibson was going to fix his living situation anytime soon. So, Gibson decided to do what he does best. Let his mouth run away from him at the speed of a goofily animated cartoon roadrunner.

The more he talked, the more the serval seemed to curl in on himself. His nose kept twitching, poignantly unhappy about the situation but trying to hide it. It was entertaining to say the least, but to guarantee he wasn’t locked out he stuck out his hand in a show of politeness. He spotted Finnegan’s claws dig apprehensively into his cup of black coffee before whipping out his own to take Gibson’s, almost as if he needed to force the situation along or he’d never get through it. 

Fine. He’ll say it. The serval’s fingers were like a pile of toothpicks cradled in his hand. His hands are _that small._ Gibson’s own engulfed Finnegan’s like woolen gloves. He tried his best to make it comfortable since Finnegan looked like he’d rather die than keep touching him—which, _rude._ But okay. Not a big deal. Gibson could keep his distance, as long as that meant he would let him stay. He saw the slight relief in Finnegan’s eyes when he kept his grip loose, which was better than the glower he had persisted on adopting for his first impression. 

As they chatted on their respective couches, Gibson thought he got the gist of Finnegan’s personality. A silent storm that takes no shit, thundering in sporadic bouts of heat lightning, saying _I am a threat. I am a warning. Stay near me too long and you_ will _get zapped._ But. _But._ As he fussed over how many boxes he left cluttering the room, complaining about what an idiot he was under his breath for letting it get this packed _what the fuck I’m not a fucking hoarder_ , telling Gibson to take a hot shower while he got the bedspread ready and nearly breaking his damn foot dropping a box full of old equipment that had broken long ago, Gibson found himself enamored with how utterly soft the man is. How doting. It threw him for a complete loop. He was turning it over in his head, multiple angles and everything, while Finnegan’s hands palmed the small of his back and shoved him towards the bathroom because _you smell like fucking smoke, christ_. And it made no fucking sense, it still doesn’t.

But as he brushed his teeth with fucking... sensodyne or whatever sensitive toothpaste Finnegan has, Gibson settled on a simple idea. That minuscule idea dug itself so deep into his bones, he made it his _mission._

Listen. Here’s the thing.

Gibson likes to pretend he’s a fucking moron. It’s hilarious to garner reactions from normal, sane people by asking off-the-wall shit—nonsensical questions that would leave a Harvard professor’s head hurting from his stupid, like “what’s the danish word for thong” and “why do they call it sparkling water if it’s just fizzy”. Gibson is 99% sure that every psychologist on the planet would love to have their turn picking at his brain and ask him questions so personal he would have to escape through a window three stories high and choose a painful demise over actually admitting out loud _I’m a pitiful people pleaser who has zero self worth that no one takes seriously because I’ve been forced to become comic relief due to my lack of brain to mouth filter because of my undiagnosed issues and untapped trauma._

 **So**. When he gets to be that person that makes someone laugh by pretending to be caveman v3.0 modern edition, he feels wanted. He feels appreciated. And yeah, while that constant itching need (like a hive buzzing in his temporal lobe) for validation and positive reinforcement probably isn’t healthy, it’s nice to make someone laugh, even if they are laughing at him and not with him. 

The point is: he loves a challenge, and Finnegan seems to be one hell of a wall to fracture. Gibson wonders what will get him to crack. Maybe a joke about laundry detergent. For some reason, it sounds like something he would be into.

Gibson hasn’t interrupted Finnegan once during his entire bluster about the difference between chives and green onions, only humming the appropriate responses while his mind drifts in the aether. He cuts off Finn’s next connected thought before he has the chance to rev up again.

“Hey, not to interrupt the riveting details of how well you simmer food, but.” Gibson starts firmly and smirks at the way Finnegan’s face visibly morphs into irritation. He takes the fabric of the apron between his forefinger and thumb, internalizing the texture of it. “Are we going to talk about the apron?”

“ _No_ , we are fucking _not_ ,” Finnegan snaps with wide eyes, slamming the lid on top of the pan in a flurry, and winces at the noise it creates.

“Come on! Pleeaase?” He drags out, placing his palms together pleadingly and putting on his best puppy-dog-eyes. “I desperately want to know if you bought it or if it was a gag gift from a coworker. Please. _Please_ , there has to be a story behind it!”

“Oh my god,” Finnegan groans on the last of his sentence, which is cute. Finn is cute. Can a grown man be cute? “Do me a favor and go back to shutting the fuck up.”

“I think you should know if we’re going to live together that it is physically impossible for me to do that.” Gibson nods seriously without a smile, and Finnegan resolutely rolls his eyes at him and grabs a bowl to fill with the soup.

“Here.” Finnegan says, also muttering under his breath something clearly only meant for himself, because Gibson doesn’t catch it in time before the bowl is placed on the table in front of him with a metal spoon dipped in it.

Gibson’s nose is suddenly filled with the heady scent that had awoken him in the first place. He looks down at the unnamed soup and notices chopped mushrooms floating inside, begging to be eaten. He gives Finnegan a glance that conveys _are you sure about letting me eat this extremely time-consuming delicious meal you have labored in the kitchen for_ , and Finnegan’s answering raise of his brows reads as _you better fucking eat it or I’ll gut you and throw you over a very very tall bridge and no one will ever find your corpse._

So, he picks up his spoon and eats. 

It’s fucking fantastic. 

He knows it’s only a creamy mushroom soup, but god damn. He hasn’t had this in a while. Gibson makes a show of wiping a fake tear away after swallowing the first bite. “It’s absolutely delectable, chef Finnegan.” He says, his voice gummed in played emotion, then he digs voraciously into the food like it’s his last meal on earth.

Finnegan closes his eyes to collect himself, Gibson thinks, but other than that he appears pleased that Gibson is eating something. The fact that he is leaves a sudden warm, fluttery feeling in his gut. 

_Stop, stop, no. He’s most likely not going to let you stay._

Speaking of.

“Hey, Finn?” He prompts through a mouthful of mushroom.

The serval bristles as planned. “Finnegan.”

“Mm.” He purrs and licks some soup off of his own lower lip, tickled that the nickname ruffles him so. “Why do you need a housemate?” 

Finn freezes in the current position he’s in—a hand on the chair with the apron on it, about to take a seat next to him. Gibson tries to soften the question a bit, fiddling with his spoon. “If it’s personal you don’t have to tell me. Just curious.”

Finnegan silently sits down with an intense air about him. He taps at the table and doesn’t look him in the eye, mulling over something.

Gibson frowns, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “Seriously, if you—“

“I’m struggling. Financially,” he blurts, flushing in what Gibson perceives as shame. “Obviously. Just look at the shit around you.”

Finnegan wrings his hands as Gibson indulges him. Again, he’s faced with the fact that a lot of Finnegan’s belongings aren’t quite... comfortably usable, is the kindest way to put it. He wasn’t kidding earlier when he said everything looks like it has to be hit to get it to work, even the stove. 

“My fridge is empty,” Finnegan gives a sardonic, dry chuckle as he stares at his own intertwined fingers. “I can pay rent just fine. But. The other expenses are the problem.”

Gibson stiffens. “Wait. The...” He holds his nearly empty bowl of soup with renewed gratitude. 

“Yeah, don’t blow a gasket over it.” Finnegan waves off his wide-eyed concern and finally looks at him again. “It wasn’t much. Though you’d be surprised how much a few garlic cloves costs.”

Bending his head, Gibson quickly downs the rest of his soup before it grows cold. Finnegan observes in a quiet manner, a bemused twitch to his mouth.

“You live in your car,” Finn comments casually.

Gibson swallows and sets the bowl down with a light click. “Yeah?” 

“How will you help pay rent?”

Gibson’s brain fumbles a little as he tries to come up with the right set of words to alleviate the tension. “Oh don’t worry about that. I have a stash of money built up from when I still had my job.” The tiger’s tail twitches beside him, unconsciously twisting into interesting patterns. He didn’t check into any hotels except to shower once a week so his savings wouldn’t shrivel up like spinach on heat. (Of course he had lied earlier when Finnegan asked. He’s not exactly _proud_ of his hygiene.) “We can ride off of it for a few months while I job search,” he reassures, his thumb tracing circles on the side of his bowl.

Finnegan unfurls his hands. He nods shortly as his frown loosens in faint respect at Gibson’s care. “Good. I’m glad you thought some of this through.”

“I’m not that much of an idiot. Swear on my stripes.” Gibson jests as his teeth poke out of his upper lip.

The serval gives him a sharp look, one that Gibson has the child-like urge to squirm down into his chair to hide from. He opens his mouth to say something, but a phone goes off somewhere in the apartment.

Gibson’s toothy smile reaches his eyes in disbelief. “Is that a fucking house phone? Finn, you have a _house phone_?”

He sputters in anger. “It’s all I can afford! Shut up, you sleep in your fucking car!” He spitfires with a red face and shoots up from his seat to dive into the living room to answer it before it stops blaring.

He covers his face and cackles like an utter asshole over this idiosyncratic apron-wearing five-foot-manlet _maniac,_ lurching back dangerously so far in his seat that it almost sends him sprawling to the floor. He’s still gasping for breath and giggling when he overhears Finnegan complain “—yeah, he’s a fucking douchebag! He’s losing his shit in the kitchen because I don’t have the new latest-and-greatest iphone 15 or whatever with a screen the size of my fucking mirror. Can you hear him??? What the fuck!—“ which just leaves him to laugh harder and crumple onto the table with a life-threatening wheeze that comes from the depths of his lungs.

After an indeterminate amount of time of Gibson losing his shit, he stands up and tries to catch his breath as he cleans his bowl and spoon in the sink because he’s a good roommate—he’s trying to prove something, here. He listens to the indistinct sound of Finnegan muttering into the phone the entire time, but he’s unable to catch anything more than what he had heard before. To fix that, he peeks his head around from the kitchen door frame and spots Finnegan with his back to him, staring blankly at the floor with a furrowed brow. 

“I know. ...No. ...I really hope so, Freya. Thanks. Tell Esme I said to yell at her dad— _yes, because he fucking deserves it_.” He says sharply, then lets out a small chuckle at a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Gibson dearly wishes he could see if Finn is smiling. “Alright. Take care of yourselves. I’ll figure something out.” With a surprisingly sentimental cadence, he mumbles his goodbye and puts the phone back on the stand. Finnegan exhales and turns to find Gibson regarding him curiously. He looks like he jumps out of his fur. Gibson grins.

“Do you always eavesdrop on conversations?” Finnegan accuses raucously. 

“Nah,” Gibson snorts, “just yours now. Your own personal stalker. How’s it feel?” He asks with a shifty smirk, wiggling his fingers in Finnegan’s direction. 

Finnegan shuts his eyes and makes a fist with his hand like he’s about to burst, but he strangely expels hot air and lets his shoulders sag. _Letting it go, huh_ , Gibson thinks inanely, his eyes following Finnegan as he bumps past him into the living room. He lingers on the worn wood against his shoulder and observes Finnegan as he gathers the amalgamated mess of papers on the table (when did all of that get there, what). 

When Finnegan doesn’t offer any more conversation, Gibson’s mouth panics. “I should probably... go? Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.” He says awkwardly, pointing at the door with his thumb. “I can go get my stuff, and...”

“And go where?” Finnegan hits the thin stack of papers in his hands against the table to straighten them. It’s ridiculously loud in the quiet of the apartment. “If you think I’m going to let you get back problems in your shitty leather seats when I have a spare bed like an asshole, then you’re an idiot.”

Gibson does a double take from shock, but quickly schools his expression when Finnegan glances back at him. “Aw,” he grins, “you’ve adopted me. Sign the papers, Finn. I’m your car hobo.”

“I already have,” he retorts curtly, his head downturned. “While you were asleep. I...”

Gibson’s back straightens like a ramrod. “Wait, you’re actually letting me stay? That wasn’t a goof?”

“For now.” He tells, a thoughtful, curious expression on his face when he turns back to Gibson. “I should have asked you before I did.” Finnegan asks with his eyes: _Do you want to stay here, really?_

Gibson wants to say _I really wasn’t expecting you to_ , but it never makes it past his throat. A stilted sound escapes him. Finnegan looks. And looks. Looks until Gibson’s actually thinking about it.

Would living with Finnegan and his broken knick knacks be so bad? No, he doesn’t believe so. Dealing with a microwave that has to cook the food an extra minute isn’t nearly as taxing as trying to fit the entire length of his body in the backseat of his car. Not even close. Also, if the cooked meals are in play, he won’t ever want to leave. 

Besides. He already has his mission. 

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his rumpled jeans. “It seems we’re both our last resort, huh,” he states, chuffing.

Finnegan blinks, and his eyes soften. “Alright. Then I’ll let you stay.” Gibson _beams_. Before he can open his mouth to whoop, Finnegan interrupts him with a firm finger. “For a month, Gibson. As a test run. Alright?”

He snaps his mouth shut and nods obediently, still vibrating with energy. “Okay, cool cat. A month. No problem.”

Finnegan sighs loudly and covers his face. “That’s even worse than Finn,” he grouses, which Gibson is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to hear.

“Get used to it, buddy,” Gibson gifts a solid pat to his shoulder as he passes by on his way to the couch.

Finnegan sulks. “This is going to be a long month.” Gibson snorts and kicks his legs up on the table, his bare ankles on the glass. 

_Grueling, really._


	2. S’mores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Disturbing Nightmares, Malnutrition, Mention of Underage Drinking

Noisy keyboards are the fucking best. 

The springy give underneath his fingertips, the clicks they pronounce—it’s one of his greatest pleasures. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s literally the height of his day. It’s one of the reasons he chose his job in the first place. It calms both his ears and the nervous instinct inside of him that screams _press that button again flip that light switch click the heat on do it again again again._

What he’s good at, _really_ good at, is catching errors. Errors in speech and in writing. Of course, he’s not going to critique someone’s usage of the english language outside of work like an asshole—he understands that it is difficult, even for native speakers (he’s seen all kinds of fuckery it has wrought while editing). But he can use his heightened obsession of that _incorrect, wrong_ sense to someone else’s advantage. He can help people with his neurological idiosyncrasies.

For his job, mainly. 

He was introduced to the concept of working in publishing by a college associate. They mentioned it in passing and said it’d be a good fit for him (purely subjectively, they didn’t care one way or the other), but Finnegan had looked it up anyway and found that _wow, they were right._ It checks off all of his strengths.

It doesn’t mean that he particularly _likes_ it, though. He could do without communication with his clients.

As he finishes proofreading another script for the third time, he hits the space bar key more times than necessary and swivels in his office chair.

“You know he’s a slob?” Finnegan spits, the built frustration throughout the entirety of the past few days finally snapping.

Ivan. The same college associate who had wrapped him into this job. They are sitting next to him now, busy with their own work. They had both become closer, not out of any particular liking of the other, but for someone to find comfort in at work who they could complain to about their boss. Ivan is a white silkie chicken with grey eye-like patterns on the sides of their neck feathers that wears skirts long enough that they drag on the floor (arguably untidy), and they work as an editor. Ivan and Finnegan cooperate well together, if only because of both of their inabilities to be a “team player”. It’s kind of ironic. He thinks Ivan once mentioned finally acquiring all of the achievements for a game called “Diablo III”, which Finnegan knows nothing about. He doesn’t get video games. Then again, he wasn’t sure if Ivan was talking to themself.

Ivan gives him a blasé, affirming noise beside him as they monitor their own work.

“He argued with me about using the dishwasher. You know I don’t use the fucking dishwasher, it’s more thorough to just clean them in the sink.”

A hum.

“He bought his own soap bar the other day and put it under the fucking shower head where it drips and now there’s melted soap everywhere.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The trash can is so fucking nasty. He throws shit in like he’s trying to impress his 5th grade crush and misses it entirely.” 

“Yep.”

Finnegan winces at himself and hits the back of his head on his chair. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I.”

“As always,” Ivan says dryly, continuing to type as their eyes jump across their screen. “If he annoys you so much then just throw him out.”

“You know I can’t. He’ll eat disgusting take-out pasta in his fucking,” Finnegan vibrates his hands in anger, like he wants to strangle a certain someone, “car seats stained with sauce from McDonalds or some shit. That’s so unhealthy!”

“Not really your problem,” Ivan mumbles as Finnegan continuously talks over them.

“How has he even been sleeping in there all this time?” 

“Folded his body like a toddler, maybe.” Ivan nods faintly, interested in the imagery.

“He must have been renting hotel rooms because he told me he showers regularly, he _told_ me.” Finnegan scratches his armrest fervently. “He wouldn’t _lie_ to me, right?”

“You should talk to him about it.”

Finnegan growls at them. “And say what? You want me to ask questions like I’m his fucking psychiatrist? It’s bad enough I have to deal with his laundry because he’s used to going to laundromats and doesn’t take out the—the fucking lint from the dryer—seriously, what the fuck kind of—“

“You’re being irrational,” Ivan says low, pausing to give Finnegan a look. “Make actual conversation.”

“How? Like _oh, how was your day on my couch, how’s the job search, if you don’t get one soon then we’re both fucked?_ Like that?”

“Finnegan. Instead of talking down at people like you do in every situation that involves feeling an emotion, why not help him? The whole thing would go much faster.”

Finnegan rubs his forehead with his palm. “I didn’t have help.”

“Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t.” Finnegan falls silent, so Ivan continues. “I know you don’t actually hate him. You haven’t shut up about him ever since he showed up at your door.”

“Ugh,” the serval grunts, dragging his hand across his entire face in exasperation. “That’s not reassuring. You know that right? I want to put my head in an oven.”

“ _Luczak_.” Ivan says in a louder tone than normal, and Finnegan shuts the hell up (because when Ivan starts calling out last names, everything goes to shit very fast). “You know I admire you, I really do. But if you do not communicate with your roommate, I will not hesitate to staple your arms to your desk.”

Finnegan’s brows hang over his eyes with how hard he’s frowning. He waves his hand. “Yeah. Yep. You’re right. I’ll just go throw myself off of the brooklyn bridge. That’ll help.”

Ivan sighs and hits enter on their keyboard roughly. “You’d be doing me a favor.” 

c[_]

The past three days have been like this: imagine an easter egg hunt. Now, take the eggs from said imaginary hunt and switch them with flimsy little cardboard puzzle pieces that hold unimportant trivia about his dear sleazebag of a roommate. 

The way Finnegan hoards the tidbits of information like nuggets of golden treasure is certainly not intentional. He’s not his guardian or anything. He doesn’t give a shit what Gibson does, so long as he helps him pay rent. It’s just, when you live with someone, you adapt. Your schedule has to include them; work around them. Finnegan brews coffee for both of them in the morning since he’s already there, he might as well. _It gets Gibson up earlier,_ his mind betrays, and Finnegan’s palm repeatedly smacks the side of the coffee maker to get _that_ thought out. Gibson had convinced him to let him buy two new mugs, one which is a simple white that says “I cannot be held responsible for what my face does when you speak” scrawled unapologetically on the ceramic. (“It’s _perfect_ for you,” Gibson had said, glowing with pride at his choice.) The other is a blinding neon red that has the words “”That’s what.” -She” quoted on the side in white letters that Gibson elects to use every morning. He really should have gone with him for that particular grocery run.

Finnegan has been able to cook meals for the both of them a few times—both breakfast and dinner. Simple things like bagels with cream cheese are still on the table, but he’s been dying without an actual meal for a while. It seems Gibson has too with the way he inhales anything Finnegan sets in front of him with abandon. Finnegan is ashamed to admit that he finds it slightly endearing.

There’s a thing, though. A thing that needs to be addressed.

The first day, after Finnegan had stepped out of the shower and brushed his teeth, Gibson sauntered past the open bathroom door without a sparing glance towards him doing his delicate daily routine of flossing, and Finnegan nearly swallowed the fucking string stuck between his molars. He was still in his stupid button-down from yesterday, which was fucking gross but okay, he could deal with that. His glasses were perched on the edge of his nose, crooked, and that bothered him a little, fine. But that wasn’t _it._

Gibson wasn’t wearing fucking pants. The only thing covering his hips was a pair of black boxers that hugged his waist. So Finnegan observed him in the way a man watches a vehicle charge at him at 100 miles per hour from a highway: like he’s already been hit.

 _Guys walk around each other without pants on all the time!_ He rationalized to himself hysterically and gripped the bathroom sink with wide eyes and white knuckles. 

If that wasn’t bad enough, Gibson had also unconsciously made a show of butterflying his stupid freakishly long legs all over his fucking couch so Finnegan _had_ to witness it when he entered the room. Gibson wasn’t smiling in a teasing way when he did it; he was scrolling through social media on his phone with a tiny focused pout. Finnegan’s warranted discomfort went entirely unnoticed.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if this had only happened once. But it has happened _every fucking morning._

He finds himself reluctantly picking up more pieces when he’s judging him in those egregious moments.

Gibson comes out of his room with his shirt buttoned incorrectly sometimes, uneven gaps in the fabric where Finnegan can just spot the fluffy white fur poking out from underneath. He has a discernible loud yawn: mouth open with a strange shudder to it, sputtering in and out like pumping an old tire before releasing all of the gathered air in a smooth stream. His face and tail twitches intermittently, like he can’t help it. He almost spilled coffee one time as he was trying to take a drink, and his hand said _no—in your lap instead._ Finnegan had thought it was on purpose (he nearly jumped at the chance to bicker with him again), but the way Gibson earnestly apologized with a sheepish look on his face told him otherwise.

Really. He really didn’t need to know this much about another person. It leaves his head spinning at night, poking at everything he’s gathered so far from different angles with muted frustration until he’s fallen into a restless sleep.

Later after work, he travels into the living room with a book in hand to read and finds Gibson, bored and on his phone, all over the couch. Like it’s a bed. Finnegan feels an uncontrollable irritation flare—a need to get his attention.

This need has popped up an exorbitant amount of times. It’s sort of concerning.

“Move,” Finnegan orders as he impulsively climbs onto the couch next to Gibson who is doing fuck all, invading his space because _he has a place damn it_ and flips open the book he’s been trying to finish. Gibson pops an earbud out of his ear (where he is probably listening to a ska band of some sort—only a few days and Finnegan already knows his dreadful taste in music) and smirks as Finnegan shoves his arm to slot himself comfortably against the softness.

“Hog much,” the tiger whispers audibly, and Finnegan has an abrupt visceral urge to shut him up by kicking his teeth in. Or sticking a sock into his mouth. Either would work. 

“This is my fucking seat,” he bites.

Gibson blinks, then looks around the couch like he’s checking it for spots. He lifts one of the cushions. “I don’t see a name on it.”

He huffs. “Are you seriously pulling that schoolyard crap?”

“Yes. As we all know, I am mentally ten years old.” Gibson says primly with his nose held high like it’s something to be proud of. 

“I’ll fucking treat you like you’re ten if you keep acting like a jackass.” Finnegan grouses.

The tiger gasps in offense and cups his hand over his ear. ”Curse words! My innocence!”

Finnegan feels his lips try to quirk up on their own—trying to _smile_ , oh god. Thankfully the dreaded oncoming snort sounds more like a scoff when it’s set free. He shoves Gibson’s shoulder with his back and lingers there out of spite, making sure not to let him parse the indecipherable scrunch to his face. “Idiot.”

He thinks Gibson is smiling, but he can’t see. “Your idiot now.” Gibson says in a sigh, his tone faux fond, and Finnegan‘s stomach fills with a buzzing so fierce he knots his hand into his shirt to try and soothe whatever horrid little creature had breached and wriggled its way into his body. Gibson‘s stiff shoulder bumps the back of Finnegan’s head when he props his feet up on the coffee table again. The buzzing builds impossibly louder. “Hope you filled out those forms in ink.”

Finnegan thumbs at the open page of the half-read book in his hand and feels the edge of it graze feebly against his callus. He subtly attempts to control his breathing to get whatever the hell that decided he needs to feel like this _out_. 

_What is it? What? Are you hungry?_ His mind conjures a feminine, sneering voice, one he’s heard plague him for years and years. He digs half-moon crescents into the skin of his stomach through his shirt. 

He’s fine. He’s fine. It is not the same sensation.

He peeks at Gibson from over his shoulder who is toying with his phone. The screen is filled with small text blotted by an eye-searing white, and he has to squint to try and decipher what the hell it could be saying. It looks like a list. Gibson must notice. His thumb pauses in the middle of the screen. Finnegan isn’t nosy enough to ask what he’s doing—he can barely see the words anyway, and Gibson doesn’t tilt the screen in his direction at all, so Finnegan turns back to his book and actually decides to start reading before Gibson holds out an earbud in front of Finnegan’s face so infuriatingly close that he goes cross-eyed for a moment.

“You are not getting me to listen to Rock Lobster again,” Finnegan deadpans.

That earns him a heavy snort before Gibson peals and cackles.

Another piece: Gibson laughs with his whole body. 

Finnegan has _known,_ watching him stumble around the house in hysterics every time Finnegan opens his mouth to insult him over something idiotic—but this. He internalizes this. He’s pressed right up against him, uncaring of what it must look like from the outside. They’re like two idiots at a frat party drunk and casually all over each other on a trashed sofa that isn’t theirs like it’s just _natural,_ snickering around the lumps in their throats and running their mouths about a show they should watch together. He laughs with his chest, his stomach, his legs as they bounce, his arms when they catch against Finnegan’s side. He feels the jump of Gibson’s torso against his back jostling him slightly, the vibrations traveling through his spine. It’s glaringly intimate in a way Finnegan has rarely experienced. When his grandmothers hugged him and tittered, they were soft and warm. Loving. The tremble of their lungs gathered in his tiny heart and made it swell and swell and swell. It felt like home. But Gibson, well. Gibson’s laughter feels like a fucking awakening. 

Finnegan has a bone-deep, unquestionable need to make him laugh all the time. He’s never been one to warrant laughter—he’s never genuinely _tried._ People have been in his presence for a minute and they have immediately understood not to fuck with him. He’s experienced customer service employees’ grimaces when he appears like a demonic soccer mom straight out of hell. But as Gibson attempts to wheedle Finnegan into it by cooing in his ear (his voice hitching with more laughter as he slants against his shoulder blades), all he thinks is _make him laugh more, more, more._

He doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t know what to _do_ with it.

_If Gibson had other options, would he have…_

Finnegan bars him from shoving it in his ear and they each go back to their activities. Gibson is definitely grinning from ear to ear next to him, keeping one earbud hanging just in case Finnegan changes his mind. The companionable silence that’s graced them off and on comes back, and Finnegan distinctly hears a far away, warped beat in Gibson’s earbuds. 

Finnegan turns a page and sniffs. 

Of course he filled out the forms in ink. Graphite isn’t shit.

c[_]

Finnegan dreams on the fourth night.

He usually doesn’t dream. Whenever he does, he jolts awake and his brain struggles to grasp what it had conjured, but it always ends up slipping through his fingers like sand. Fleeting, like he hadn’t dreamed anything at all. 

But he remembers this one. Because it’s more memory than fiction.

He exists in the middle of a cramped room, the circular rug beneath him the precise size of the elliptic twine of his prepubescent legs from his knobbly knees to his twiggy shins. He’s hidden a broken mirror under his sleeping bag so she won’t find it. When it launched across the trailer hallway and shattered against the wall, it felt like a gunshot had gone off next to his ear. All he could hear afterward was the shrill, high pitched ringing that accompanied explosions in the field ( _like_ _in wars,_ his eleven year old mind acknowledged deliriously, _am I a soldier?_ ). Words kept spilling out of someone else’s mouth (never yelling, always a calm, cold fury), unencumbered by his thousand yard stare because he couldn’t hear _anything—his head hurt so much—_ until he tumbled to escape into his room. More things were thrown. More things broken. A lamp being hurled. Dishes. Books. It all faded into the background when he shut his door.

Finnegan, now somehow an adult in his childhood nightmare, cowers on his rug and covers his ears fast when a low warble begins to build that forces the space around him to tremble like an unusual, level earthquake. He waits. And waits. And waits. Ears still covered, eyes shut tight. It feels like days ( _back then you were left for days, days_ ) as the timbre grows and vibrates all the way down into his marrow. His body is nearly three sizes the length of the rug now, and as he cracks an eye open to look down, he nearly chokes on his tongue. 

He’s naked, and his body is practically a fucking skeleton, because he’s _deeply_ malnourished. His hips jut out in the most grotesque manner imaginable. His skin stretches over his ribs and bones like paper mache, fragile, one touch would snap him in half, he’s sure. His legs are so thin he doesn’t even feel like they’re his—he’s terrified to move them. It’d be too scary to comprehend that _it’s_ _him, he’s the one that’s making them move, he’s the one they’re attached to._

He recognized why his younger body manifested as such ( _because—_ ), but to see its effects on himself now is violently harrowing. He’s _healed_. He’s perfectly healthy. He has people that love him. He works out for fuck’s sake. It could never get this bad. Not again.

 _All of it was in vain,_ the voice hisses in his mind, a mix of his own in a higher tone that matches her’s, like cruel telepathy. No. _You’re still that husk of a broken boy. That will never change._ It sounds like she’s speaking right up next to him, against his ear, her gravelly cadence _too close too close too fucking close stay the fuck back, not_ **_again_** _._

He presses his palms to his ears until he’s sure his skull will crack in half like a brittle clay pot, afraid to see how his fingers will look, afraid to hear more of the voice. If he can block it out, he can… he can…

Glass shards sneak out from under the bag like locusts and fly around his night lamp, reflecting colors on the wallpaper he can’t possibly discern with the anatomy he was born with. The rumbling extends and reverberates until it sounds like a gathering of hulking war planes encircling the walls ( _a soldier_ ), encompassing him, a cacophony of sound, and he feels so miniscule that he’s going to splinter. He’s going to curl so far in on himself that he wastes away and stops existing.

The life is being sucked out of his body. It’s so cold. He’s a black hole.

Then, everything goes deathly quiet except for the slight jiggle of his door handle.

Finnegan awakes on a gasp so immense and abrupt he coughs. Apparently he had adopted his dream self’s instinct as his own in his sleep, because he’s face down in his pillow. He clears his throat after relieving some of the tension from his chest and props himself up onto his elbows and flips over. His eyes are refusing to open. He doesn’t want to see. He wheezes once, a moment of weakness. Then, he breathes and focuses on the workings of his lungs. Esme taught him this. He inhales for four, holds for seven, exhales for eight. He goes through it again. And again. He does it until the boulder sitting on his chest abates, lifting a pound at a time.

His fists clench and unclench in the bedsheets. It’s painful. He definitely won’t be able to go back to sleep.

Finnegan sits up, sluggishly pulling his legs out from their fabric prison and letting them fall on their own against the side of the mattress. His legs look okay. They look healthy. He’s fine.

Completely fine.

The kitchen is dark. So is the entire apartment. It’s why he doesn’t perceive the silhouette of a person until he bumps into them. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” the person blurts in startled surprise, clasping Finnegan’s arm to steady him, and Finnegan prickles, his hair standing on end. His body momentarily blares code red code fucking RED. “Finn?”

Oh. Gibson. Of course. 

“Yeah.” He croaks, hoarse.

“Fuck are you doin’ up?” Gibson has the gall to ask. His voice is sleep-heavy and rich, his pronunciation lazy, and Finnegan doesn’t see the glint of glasses on his face. He can feel the rumble of Gibson’s chest against his hand, which had shot out and found him in fear. Finnegan’s fingers twitch in the creases of his shirt. 

“What about you?” Finnegan retorts, the bitter energy he usually responds with currently spooked out of him. 

Gibson’s sizable hand is still on his forearm. His right one joins it on his other arm, asymmetrical and searching, trying to discern something. “Are you _sweating?_ ”

“No, I jumped into the public pool,” he snarks tacitly and scowls when his body shivers under the attention of someone who wants to find out what’s wrong.

The tiger’s face must change. The outline of his brows knit. “Dude,” he prods.

Finnegan grunts caustically and drops his hand to cover his face instead. His shoulders hitch up when Gibson’s worried touch travels upward.

Gibson lets the silence linger for a moment, waiting for Finnegan to start the conversation. He doesn’t. Gibson sighs and also lets his hands fall to his sides. “Want coffee? I think I’m getting the hang of Dolly.”

The serval stares into the blackness of his palm. “...Dolly?”

“The coffee maker. She needed a name.” He sounds a touch relieved. 

“It doesn’t need a name. No coffee maker needs a name.”

“ _You’re lookin’ swell, Dolly,_ ” he quotes in song, tilting his head up, “ _I can tell, Dolly._ ”

_What?_

“Please don’t burst into song at—“ Finnegan searches out the clock on the stove that reads 4:56 am. “—five am.” Christ.

“Everyone sings at this hour. Haven’t you heard of morning showers?” Gibson disputes in the defense of crazy morning people. Then, a momentary puff. Because it rhymed.

Speaking of. Finnegan grits his teeth and tells himself to take a shower because he fucking urgently needs one. The back of his shirt is moist with cold sweat, and he feels fallibly gross.

Finnegan’s eyes follow the outline of Gibson’s thumb when it points to a light switch, questioning. He nods, and Gibson flips on the light above the stove. Finnegan gives a weak hiss, rubbing his eyelids to try and soothe the pain away. When he decides to weather the headache of light in his corneas, he notices that yes, Gibson isn’t wearing his glasses. He looks strange without them—more real.

Gibson’s eyes roam over him with a renewed awareness. “You look like shit.”

“So do you, but you don’t hear me saying anything.”

Gibson really does. The bags are back under his eyes. When he had ambled into the kitchen after his nap to Finnegan’s cream mushroom soup (in his stupid fucking piña colada rat shirt), he seemed well rested. The bruising under his eyes had mitigated a bit. But now they’re back in full force, giving his face a sort of gaunt look. Had he been awake this whole time?

He snorts. “You just did.”

“Blame yourself. Make some goddamn coffee, I need to shower.” Finnegan asserts, his throat parched. He turns and walks briskly back down the hall before Gibson can say anything in response. He doesn’t desire to hear what joke Gibson will crack at his expense.

He gathers his clothing from his room, arms full, and shuts the bathroom door and locks it with a pointless feeling of apprehension, slumping back against the wood. 

When he steps under the spray, he cranks the water as hot as it will go and permits his body to finally quiver timorously in the safety of privacy.

c[_]

Finnegan comes out of the shower with red eyes. They’re puffy, like he’s been crying, but Gibson isn’t 100% convinced. It’s more likely that it’s about why Finnegan had gotten up in the middle of the night in the first place.

Gibson cracks open the fridge and retrieves the newly bought creamer. Gibson had wanted to buy a few different flavors that they could both try (mostly for Finn, he wants to show him all the flavors of the world), but Finnegan argued over how that would cost more because creamer costs an unfair amount of cash and that it was better not to waste funds. Gibson contended that they were technically _his funds,_ and Finn flipped him off and told him to get whatever the hell he wanted, but he wasn’t going to drink more than one flavor out of arrant spite. So, resigned, he bought only one probably dubious-tasting flavor: s’mores. He pours it into both of their fresh cups and stirs them with a spoon. The warmth from the metal seeps into his fingers as he waits leisurely for Finn.

When he appears like a dead man walking, Gibson frowns with the spoon in his mouth. A towel hangs innocently over his shoulders, and he’s changed out of his pajamas (adorable) into another wooly-looking sweater paired with shorts and ankle socks. Gibson slumps a little. At least he’s not wearing his knee high torments. Who fucking wears those.

“What,” Finnegan says defensively, more ready to start a quarrel than a conversation. A threat more than an ask. 

Gibson sets down the spoon and sips from his cup, a show of indifference, and slides the other in front of him on the kitchen island. Finnegan’s resistive posture eases into wary interest. 

His nose scrunches. “Why does it smell like that?”

“The mysterious inner workings of the coffee creamer production industry, Finn.” Gibson wisecracks, and Finn’s hands clench.

Finnegan apparently concludes to disregard the nickname. He steps forward and reaches for the cup, reluctantly lifting it to his mouth to take a drink. He grimaces.

“How’sit?” Gibson grins.

He laps his tongue past his lips like an animal with peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. “This is all sugar,” he carps. 

“No, _Thank you, Gibby?_ I get it.” Gibson takes a sip of his own. It’s definitely not _bad._ “That's all that creamer is.”

Finnegan seems to mouth “Gibby” quizzically before going back to scowling. “No, you just bought the one that would give me the most cavities.”

He grins wider. “Want an apple?”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Finnegan pulls out the stool right next to Gibson and sits with a huff. Gibson wonders why, since there’s basically a whole other table available to the left of them. He’s close, too. They’re almost touching arms. Finn probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Despite his complaints of the flavor, Finnegan proceeds to drink from his cup with a furrowed brow. 

Under the dim stove light (and his horrible eyesight), Finnegan’s shower-fresh fur echoes the color of wheat. His spots almost appear to shift in patterns as he changes positions, crossing his legs without much thought. It would be beautiful if he didn’t appear so somber.

Gibson sucks his cheek between his teeth, tasting the faint mixture of marshmallow and chocolate. Prying doesn’t seem like a good idea. He has a feeling Finn would clam up and build more walls than truthfully answer if he asked.

Gibson had been job searching on the couch yesterday, scrolling through job listings by search engine and growing resigned with every job that he couldn’t meet the requirements for. He figured hey, why not get a head start? It’s technically the first time he’s ever jumped on a task like that, but he really, really doesn’t want to leave Finn all by his lonesome. That includes having him stew on his own like this—whatever he’s going through.

He guzzles more of his sickly sweet drink to stop himself from speaking. The sugar sticks to his tongue, a familiar film.

“Your home life,” Finnegan comes out abruptly, not making eye contact, “what was it like?”

Well, so much for that. Gibson quirks a brow and swallows before lowering his cup. He has absolutely no clue where this is coming from. “Do you mean my family?”

Finnegan nods, cradling his mug, emotionless. 

Gibson stalls and restlessly rubs at his arm, scratching up his bicep. “Mm…” He demures, but Finn doesn’t look at him. Gibson can barely see the details of his face, fuzzy and hard. “Pretty good, all things considered. Have a mom, a dad. An older sister. Traditionalist modernism stuff, you know? White picket fence. The whole shebang.”

Finn hums into his glass as he takes another sip. He _definitely_ makes a face. Some of the tension ebbs and Gibson simpers. He raises a hand to adjust glasses (that aren’t there), then feels a bit stupid and clears his throat. 

“My sister, um. She wears glasses, too.” He says, closing his eyes and focusing on memories of her, not of his parents. “We used to pull pranks when our dad brought us to ‘bring your child to work day’ or whatever. We’d switch our glasses and bump into everything cause we’d be so blind. It was hard not to go cross-eyed. We were on completely different sides of the spectrum when it came to sight.” He sighs. “I’m nearsighted, and she’s farsighted, so it would really fuck us up. Anyway. We’d put on each others’ glasses and pretend to bump into walls at the office. We were like our own little comedy show. We introduced ourselves in half-assed amateur accents to strangers every time they came in. It was really funny, ‘cause some people came in more than once and we’d forget about them and try again. I remember one of his coworkers having to lean on his desk from laughing so hard.” 

He chuckles warmly. “She—She was a really good sister.” He pinches the skin on his neck and glances over at Finn, who’s got a softer look to him. Gibson ogles hazily.

Finnegan squints into his drink, then directs it at him. “ _Was?_ ” He presses.

Finn has developed a habit of scrutinizing Gibson as if he were whittling him with a knife, trying to get to an insoluble center. It’s a tad nauseating, like he’s a cracked walnut, breaking apart under adept fingers. He’s glad he doesn’t have his glasses on for this, but at the same time, he feels wholly more vulnerable without them. Maybe that’s a good thing—Finn had clutched his shirt like a lifeline earlier. Eye for an eye, or... something.

“She’s still alive. I—We don’t keep in touch.” He asserts, almost stumbling on the fact that _he_ is the one that ran away. He masks his fumble by taking a huge swig of his coffee, downing the rest of it.

Finn fixes on him _like that_ again when Gibson stops hiding behind his mug like a makeshift mask. Gibson blearily matches his gaze, attempting to come off as earnest. 

“What about your parents?”

Gibson huffs a bit too cynically. “Nah.” His own adam's apple jumps against his thumb. “Thought I’d make it on my own and get back to them. To prove myself—or. I dunno.” He fibs, looking away. He's going to kick him out in a month.

Finnegan is mute beside him for a few moments. Then, “You should contact your sister again. It sounds like you have good memories with her.”

Gibson grips the handle of his cup hard. “Yeah,” he grits. He is so scared of what she’ll say when he admits— “Maybe.”

He stands to escape the prying eyes of Finn and washes his cup, back turned.

Gibson hears the tapping of a glass again. Finn does it when he’s agitated, or trying to stave off his nerves, he’s learned. “Sorry.” Finn reproaches, sounding apologetic for once, to Gibson's surprise. “That was... I shouldn’t have—” His voice is high for some reason.

He turns and leans back, bracing his elbows on the counter. “It’s fine.” Gibson reconciles. “We’re roomies now, right? It’s better to know some things about each other. Otherwise, it’s like living with a stranger.”

Finnegan frowns in a different way this time, staring definitively at his own fingers. Is his face flushed? “We’re not strangers,” he states, peculiarly flat.

His face twitches. “No?”

“I know how often you play tetris on your phone.”

Gibson blurts out a laugh, flashing a toothy smile. “You got me all figured out.” 

Finnegan rolls his eyes, and… was that a smirk? Did Finn just smirk? 

Gibson goes bug-eyed. “What! You can’t smile at me when I’m not wearing my glasses!” He exclaims, using his elbows to shove himself up, and Finn does a very good impression of a greek statue. “Hold on,” he hurries as Finnegan sputters behind him, gunning for his room and haphazardly banging his hip on the door. He hisses a curse and retrieves his glasses from his side table, jerking them on then skidding back into view in his socks like a slapdash Risky Business reference. Because his now coffee-addled mind just remembered that he’s not wearing pants again.

“Damn!” Gibson bursts out, snapping his fingers like he just missed the bus. “It’s gone.” 

“It was never there,” Finnegan jabs, his eyes trained solely on Gibson’s face. 

He looks flustered.

Gibson pauses. Something wriggles in the back of his mind. He slaps his hands on the top of the entryway, arms lifted, tilting forward to feel big. Finn’s eyes promptly dart down to his bare legs then back to his face. Gibson grins smugly. “Like what you see?”

Finn’s face twists in overt disgust. “If you’re asking if I _like_ witnessing you parade around my home in a pair of candy-patterned boxers like an oaf, then no.”

“Oaf?!” Gibson guffaws. “Did you just come back from the 1800s, old man?”

“Shut up!” Finnegan snaps and sits up with brute force, nearly toppling his chair and drink. His cheeks are beet red. “What the fuck! Wear fucking pants, it’s that easy!”

“Ooh, so you _don’t_ like my boxers.” Gibson pouts and cocks his hip for effect.

“No! I hate them! That’s the whole point!” Finn makes a lot of complex hand motions in rage. It’s so, so adorable. “Where the fuck do you get off pulling that shit when someone else lives with you! It’s common fucking courtesy!” 

Impish, Gibson smirks and dares: “I could take them off.” 

Finnegan flings the towel from his neck, hitting Gibson square in the nose. It makes a loud _thwap_ noise, and Gibson stumbles back and laughs into the fabric. He tugs it down from his face to see Finn bareling at him like he’s going to tackle him. Gibson startles and bounces in place before escaping in a scramble behind the couch. Finn is just able to snag the towel before he flees, and they chase each other around the house like a bastardized game of tag. Finnegan swears at him and yells out a storm of scandalized outrage (“—fucking disgusting—I can’t _believe_ you—“) while Gibson howls in laughter as he gets walloped by Finnegan whipping the towel in his direction. 

Even if they’re both exhausted from a lack of sleep, taking turns circling around the couch and kitchen is fun. Really, really fun. Gibson isn’t sure if he’s genuinely smiled this much in a while. Living in your car will do that to you. He hopes it helps get Finn’s mind off of whatever woke him up. He protects his head with his arms as Finnegan smacks him with it again. He rushes into his room with mussed hair and a bright feeling, and Finn pumps the breaks in the hallway, letting out enraged, heavy breaths. 

“Wear some fucking pants or I’ll kill you,” he snarls, and Gibson’s ears pick up that Finn’s feet make their way back into the kitchen. Gibson giggles like a teenage girl, out of breath, and opens his clothing bag to pluck out some sweatpants. He shuffles into them and almost busts his head on the wall when he flounders with the legs. 

God, don’t let Finn kick him out.

c[_]

Later that day, Gibson texts his sister.

It might be too much too soon, but he thought about it a lot beforehand. Sure, it sort of wavered in his mind a bit (since he didn’t want to say he was living in his car, he’s positive she would have thrown a well-intentioned fit—she cared what happened to him throughout the entire fallout, and he couldn’t take the sincerity). But Finnegan’s remark is the thing that got him seriously considering it again. He doesn’t have many friends outside of some mutuals on the internet. And Spike. But he’s more of a goofy acquaintance than a friend. He does the podcast with the sugar glider, but that’s it. He doesn’t hang out with him much outside of that (since he’s an utter ball of enthusiasm and it gets a bit tiring sometimes, alright? no hard feelings). He needs someone to connect with.

He hunkers down on his bed after making sure his door is locked. He doesn’t need Finn interrupting this, as much as he loves being around him. 

Texting her isn’t the first step, though, as he has to figure out what his sister’s phone number is in the first place. He used to have it, but ever since he switched phones he consciously made an effort to not keep any of his old contacts. And he doesn’t exactly have a good memory. He pulls up Facebook and (with a twinge of trepidation) enters her name into the search bar. He doesn’t go on it often. Not really a place for people like... erm, yeah. Also, everyone who’s anyone is on there, and he doesn’t crave to publicise every thought he has to the people from his high school or possible employers. He keeps the podcast completely separate and only advertises it on Twitter and other forums. 

He finds her profile after a hot second of searching. Her last name changed. What he discovers gives him whiplash. 

She has a husband now. A goddamn _husband._ Married and all. Her profile picture is of her (a freckled, warm corgi with golden fangs), shoving her ring finger into the frame with the same toothy grin Gibson wears, except genuine. Proud. Happy. Her supposed husband is in the back, a grey mastiff, big and intimidating, with eyes crinkled in mirth. He has a scar on his upper lip. Like a bodyguard or something. Gibson scrolls down, and in their wedding photos, he notices that she isn’t wearing her glasses. For the camera, he’s sure—he has trouble with photos because his glasses glint so much and mess up the whole thing. She could never read without them. Didn’t she need to see her soon-to-be-husband’s face? Maybe she wore contacts.

He keeps looking, the frigid feeling in his gut spreading as he dives deeper into her pictures. Her dress was really pretty, white and billowing behind her like a cloud. He spots his parents there in the back, looking completely at peace. The other pictures are of unfamiliar people, probably of coworkers and friends, and there’s _a lot_ of them. She was always the life of the party in a way that Gibson couldn’t be. He was too obvious about trying to be the center of attention, and she just _was,_ effortlessly. He recalls her once downing three glasses of spiked punch and throwing it down in front of everybody at prom during her senior year without any embarrassment, even dragging strangers in with her to dance. He ended up drinking five and joining her, punch stains on their shirts and laughing the night away until they had to be dragged out by their parents and reprimanded. He had followed her lead that night, as the date he had brought with him left with someone else.

She was the one that brought him out of his shell when he made his first appearance at her home, meek and so quiet he wouldn’t utter a word.

He shakes his head and checks the information listed on her page. It includes the college she went to and her email address. No phone number, though. He grimaces and stalls, staring at her icon. It’s been years since he checked in on any of his family. He didn’t want to know what him leaving had done to them. But because of that decision, he didn’t know the first thing about any of this.

He feels so fucking guilty. 

She’s at the height of her goddamn life. She’s young and in love. She has a house, has a good paying job in software development, has a fucking husband that looks like he’s cosplaying as the fucking _terminator,_ and Gibson wasn’t there for any of it. He wasn’t there for her wedding. Didn’t hold her arm while she waltzed down the long strip of rug. Didn’t gross-cry into a handkerchief when they kissed. Didn’t congratulate her by shoving cake in her face. Didn’t interrogate the groom like a good brother should. He should have been there. He should have fucking been there. 

He inhales shakily and sighs, his face in his hand. He strokes down his snout and rubs his cheek hard, eyes stinging and boring into the pixels on his phone screen. It’s a travesty, really. It’s his own damn fault. He lets out a weak laugh, devoid of cheer, and stares. He allows himself a moment to internalize what he’s done before he opens the messenger with shaking fingers. He has to do this now. He has to. 

He types.

**Gibson:**

_hey, iza._

_I know you’re probably super busy but? Hi?_

_um_

_please don’t block me even though you have every right to, but_

_Fuck, you have a husband_

_like holy fuck. he’s a brick wall. how did you nab that_

_nvm just remembered u have the personality of a sunflower. crazy_

_wow._

Gibson bobs his leg restlessly as he waits. He gnaws on his lower lip, nearly splitting the skin. A few minutes go past without a response. He’s not surprised. It’s midday on a weekday. He hasn’t contacted her in almost a decade. Until suddenly, she comes online. He sits ridged up in his seat when he spots that tiny read checkmark. Then those three little dots at the bottom.

**Iza:**

_excuse me WHAT??? Gibson??_

_???????_

Understandable. Gibson snorts in disbelief. Next comes a phone number that he’s pretty sure is hers, because she follows it up with _call me right the hell now._ Well. Screw mentally preparing himself, he guesses.

He puts it in his phone and calls her. He was never good at denying her anything.

Gibson answers the phone with a hum. “You know I put you in my phone as Sarah Connor, right?”

Iza doesn’t dignify that with a response and cuts straight to the chase. _“Oh my fucking god. Gibson? It’s really you! What the fuck, man?!”_

He winces and digs his claws into his arm. “Do you mean that in the ‘what the fuck’ as in texting you on facebook way, or ‘what the fuck’ as in contacting you after eight years way?”

 _“OBVIOUSLY THE SECOND ONE?!”_ She shrills, and Gibson has to hold the phone away from his ear for a second. Her lungs haven’t withered in age, that’s for sure. _“—the hell did you GO,”_ he just catches as he holds it back.

He shrugs even though she can’t see. “I mean? Uh. You know.” It falls flat.

Maybe he should have stuck to texting.

 _“No, I don’t know, man,”_ Iza barks into the phone before he can utter more nonsense, _“if you conveniently forgot: your facebook and phone have been basically a ghost town ever since you left. We tried contacting you a million times in a million different ways, but you cut off every single way that we could! Your ex literally showed up on our doorstep crying! You left her fucking kid, Gibson! Holy shit!”_

“Can we not,” he starts, then cuts himself off, because that sounds _bad,_ wow, “I mean, I know what I did. I know all of that was extremely shitty of me.”

_“Yeah, man. A long series of real dickbag moves.”_

“Yep. That’s me. Dicktown central.” Gibson mumbles and tries to focus on why he called in the first place. “I wanted to—to see how you were doing? That’s, like. The only reason I texted you. I should have done that a long time ago, and I’m really sorry I left you high and dry like that.” He laughs bitterly, glancing at his knuckles against his elbow. “You have no idea how hard my hands are shaking right now.”

She pauses and breathes into the phone. _“I’m good, Gibby. I’m really good.”_

“Yeah. God. Your husband is jacked,” he says in disbelief, then butts in with, “Oh my god wait, please tell me you put me in your phone as Gibbles.” He’s shocked to hear an answering snort. 

_“No. It’s Dicktown now.”_

He huffs. “Nice.”

There’s another few moments of stretched silence before Iza sighs, staticky across the line. _“What’s the real reason you texted me?”_

Gibson shuts his eyes and chews on his inner cheek. “I’m living with someone,” is _not_ what he means to say.

 _“Yeah?”_ Her voice is curious.

Gibson’s hand drifts down to his leg, which refuses to stop bouncing. He’s _so fucking nervous._ “He’s, um. I’ve only been here for about a week, but it’s. Really great.” He says candidly, regretting every second of being open. “He hates how I leave shit all over the apartment, but...”

 _“You always were a mess,”_ Iza notes. Gibson’s smile wobbles.

“But.” He tries again. “You should see him, Iza. He storms around the place like a disgruntled grandma.”

Iza giggles. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard. _“What? How?”_

“He dotes. Like. When you first meet him he’s a little shit that looks ready to fight anything that moves,” he says, cadence low and amused, “but he cleared out his guest bedroom for me as soon as he learned that I’d been sleeping in my car.”

 _“Your car? Gibby,”_ she says with a lot more volume than warranted. Gibson grimaces when he hears the worry in her tone.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m good now. It’s okay.” She starts to ask something again, but he interrupts her. He doesn’t want to ruin his momentum, or he will definitely cry. “He makes me these meals, Iza. Like, he could make a full feast if he wanted to, he’s so talented. He’s like a munchkin version of those cooking show hosts on QVC, he’s so fucking short. You should see how little he is, he only reaches up to my chest.”

 _“Oh my god, really?”_ She sounds delighted. _“I’m not the only one! I gotta compete with him in the short olympics. Bet he can barely lift five pounds, he’s got nothing on me.”_ Iza quips, and Gibson laughs. God, he missed her.

“Careful, he’s a runner.”

 _“Does this mystery man do everything? Geez,”_ she mutters, shifting on the other end. He hears a clatter of some sort. She must have been working, he thinks guiltily. 

“Yeah, a pure virtuoso in all fields. No one can pull off shorts like he does, trust me.”

She hums. Another lull in conversation.

There’s another shuffle on her side. _“Are you—”_

“I was scared.”

Absolute quiet.

“I mean—” he stumbles, “—I mean I, oh fuck. I was scared out of my fucking mind, Iza. That’s why I left. It wasn’t the drinking problem, it was something else. I know I should explain why, but.” He lets out a sharp breath. “Shit. I can’t. I can’t right now. Can you wait until I’m ready to tell you?”

_“I...”_

“Please,” Gibson gets out, “please.”

Silence. 

_“Alright.”_ Her voice is small. 

Gibson releases his leg from it’s death grip. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Iza’s tone turns soft, hurt. _“Of course.”_

…

He hunches until his stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself. “I still shouldn’t have left you,” he admits. “Even if I cut them off. You, you didn’t deserve that. I was scared of them. I was scared of what they’d say when they finally figured out that their pick was—” _a mistake._ He doesn’t say it, but she understands with the way her voice bristles, raw.

 _“Gibby.”_ She stresses, fierce, and Gibson hides into his hand, holding back tears. _“You were the best thing that ever happened to them. To all of us. Don’t ever think that. Even if you made mistakes, we’re still family, okay?”_

He nods into his hand, even though he knows it isn’t coming across. 

_“Yeah?”_

“Mhm.”

 _“Good.”_ She says. _“Now let me go, we can talk more tomorrow.”_ There’s a _thwump_ noise. He thinks she threw a cushion. _“And you better fall asleep tonight. Don’t think I’d forget how messed up your sleeping schedule was in college.”_

He laughs wetly. “Not as fucked up as the shoes you wore on your first date.”

 _“Dick!”_ She responds in the same tone, sounding a tad choked up herself. _“How could I not buy them, they had gummy bears in the heels!”_

“Easy, just put the twenty dollars away. You had enough gummies hidden in your mattress, you didn’t need any in your wardrobe.”

_“Says Mr. Hawaiian retreat.”_

“Hey! It’s style!”

He can practically hear the eye roll. _“Alright, you living dad joke.”_

“I am but a product of my environment,” he says. Iza chuckles against what is most likely her seat. 

She sighs. _“Have a good day, Gibby.”_

“You too, Iza. I promise to tell you soon.”

_“‘Course. And, Gibby?”_

“Yeah?”

A pause. _“I love you. No matter what. I’m glad you texted me.”_

Gibson feels the tears well up again. “Yeah.” He sniffs. “Love you too, sissa.”

 _“I missed that,”_ she whispers kindly before finally hanging up with a beep.

Gibson lays back in his bed and exhales deep, letting his shoulders sag against the springy material. He doesn’t deserve that, but she’s always been too nice for her own good. He wipes hot tears rolling down his cheeks with the back of his hand and shuts off his phone.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell her.

Realistically, that’s the best it could have gone. But that hole in his stomach hasn’t left. He dreads giving her the real reason.

There’s a knock on his door, and Gibson shoots up straight like a sprig of bamboo, tossing his phone near his feet. He gravitates towards the door in a daze after wiping his face down to appear as fine as possible and opens it. Finn is looking up at him with mild concern. 

“Oh, Finn. What’s up?” He puts on a smile and fully opens the door. He probably looks like he watched a Pixar movie five times over.

Finnegan squints and tilts his head to the side. “Were you—“

“Talking to Spike? Yep.” He lies, blurting it out so Finn won’t continue. Finn’s mouth gives an annoyed twitch. “What’d’ya need?”

“Tip money. For pizza.”

Gibson lights up and reaches for his wallet from one of his dirty jeans in the corner of his room. Finnegan looks disgusted but resigned as Gibson digs out five. “What kind?”

Finn grabs the money out of his hand and straightens it. “Anchovy.” He says, impassive, then walks back down the hall without another word.

Gibson’s grin touches his eyes as he watches him leave. What a petty little shit. Gibson loves him. Hopefully, Iza wouldn’t comment on how much he’ll inevitably chatter about him.


	3. Iced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Repression, Mention of an Abusive Parent, Gibson Smokes

When it’s below 60 degrees outside, Finnegan does the one thing any sane person would strangle him for: open the windows. 

Finnegan leaves his A/C off through every season of every year. The only reason he opened that old off-white control panel the day that Gibson appeared was so his potential clients felt comfortable in his abode. (Gibson seemed _very_ relaxed, sitting on his couch and fidgeting like a college student that had too many espresso shots.) He snorts and raises his chest up with his hips on the floor to stretch out the tendons in his lower back, flexing his toes. Gibson, shockingly, doesn’t complain about the lack of heating. He spends his time huddled up in a blanket waddling around the apartment, humming songs to himself or mumbling gibberish under his breath as he views whatever he deems interesting on his phone.

The point is: the cold is critical for Finnegan’s workout time. During the summer, he has to set up multiple dust-caked fans around his room so that he doesn’t melt into a 5’3”-sized puddle from heat exhaustion. No matter if he keeps the windows open or shut, the heat, _without fail,_ stifles everything. His shirt ends up sticking to his back, and that disgusting muggy feeling swings his mood from bad to worse when he loses focus from feeling so unclean. He despises walking around shirtless in his own apartment, but if that’s what it takes to not feel like a frog in boiling mud... And track, fuck. He doesn’t have a choice. While running on the track, the oppressive humid air clogs his throat and seeps through his skin. It’s suffocating. It is the worst feeling in the world. You know that famous question of: “Would you rather die by being roasted alive or frozen alive?” He would answer frozen every time. Fuck that. 

He changes positions and rests his elbow on the outside of his knee, curling his body sideways until his sides ache. He inhales deep and focuses on the feeling, before doing the same with the other side and scanning the trees outside, getting somewhat lost in the cloudy horizon.

Musty, brightly colored leaves cling to the back of the window mesh like little bugs trying to crawl their way inside, creating their own eccentric amalgamation of modern artistry—vivid oranges, reds, and yellows mingling in alluring swirls like thick, paint-coated brushstrokes. The smell of dew and rain is prevalent in the fresh air; he dimly recalls it had rained last night. His neighbors’ chatter sometimes drifts in through the cracks of decaying leaves, conversation not meant for his ears, such as “stop leaving out leftovers” and “can you please help me clean”, which Finnegan can _intimately_ relate to. One of his neighbors is a photographer. The staccato of clicks and high, drunken giggles above him don’t leave a lot of room for imagination, especially since their supposed roommate (a different, lower, feminine voice) scolds them about it. They both only appear during the summer, though. Perhaps they are different in that regard. 

He overhears Gibson, too.

Now and again the rumble of the tiger’s thick voice will creep past the door and curl into Finnegan’s keen ears when he struggles to fall asleep. Gibson _did_ mention that he helps produce a podcast. He thought it might have been a comedic project—the image of Gibson cracking jokes into a microphone suits him a little too well. But his cadence is more of a low variety, crooning like he’s reading out poems or things of the sort. It’s strange, to say the least. The first night he heard it, he expected Gibson’s rowdy laugh to ring off of the thin apartment walls after vocalizing into whatever recording device he lugs around, but to hear the complete opposite is... He still laughs, that hasn’t changed. But he does so gently, hushed and smooth, like Gibson had gingerly stuffed cotton in Finnegan’s ears to be polite about it. 

Finnegan wonders if Gibson ever sleeps.

When he was forced awake and found Gibson hovering by the sink, bed-rumpled with a hesitant smile, Finnegan’s tremors gradually eased. But it was replaced with a palpable worry. The casual way Gibson traversed the dark made it obvious he’s done so more than once. How often had he stayed awake and passed time sitting in complete darkness? Finnegan’s face screws up as he works his wrists. He’ll have to bring it up to him eventually and try to drag out some actual answers. 

As he finishes up his routine, Finnegan grunts and stretches his arms up high, his tank top riding up to reveal his flat stomach. The cool air caresses his fur and leeches any heat that’s left in his limbs as he rolls his shoulders and spreads out his legs one last time before exiting his bedroom.

The serval creaks open his door and peers into Gibson’s room. His heart catches in his throat when a familiar wave of gratification warms him. (Gibson’s room. Not the guest room that acted as an attic, once upon a time.) The bed is empty, but the sheets are flung to the side, unmade. Finnegan, without hesitation, sighs and enters the room to straighten them out. He pointedly does not look at the pile of clothes on the floor. After doing that, he goes out in search of Gibson. He drifts through the hallway, past the vacant bathroom, and into the living room. The tiger is nowhere to be found so far. He’s about to check the kitchen before something tickles his ears.

The melody of a guitar sounds from the terrace. 

Finnegan insidiously steers towards the open sliding door. The closer he gets, the more the strings make their place in his eardrums. When he puts his weight on the rim of the doorway, he discovers Gibson chilling in his old rocking chair, a blanket covering his legs. One foot pushes him back, setting a rhythm, while the other taps out a beat for the song he’s performing. He’s playing it softly like he’s afraid of causing a disturbance for the neighbors so early in the morning. He slips in the middle of a note, purses his lips, stalls, then plays a set of notes a few times before continuing with a content huff. 

Finnegan crosses his arms and stares, enraptured, as Gibson performs a series of complex sequences that produce a litany of musical sounds. His foot absently goes back to setting the beat as his pick plucks each string, precise, the music dissolving into the humid air. He yawns heavily, then mumbles something that Finnegan can’t quite make out. Maybe the words? This continues for a bit, and Finnegan hovers silently behind him, taking everything in.

Gibson off-handedly mentioned his instruments as if they were no big deal. But his talent with them is clear. Finnegan eyeballs his adroit fingers to his hair, messy and free of its bun. Perhaps he had gotten some rest last night—his mood certainly seems lighter. Finnegan scrutinizes him, narrow-eyed. It’s difficult to parse how Gibson feels at any point in time. He makes himself seem as obtuse as possible with humor as his frontrunner, aloof and flippant in his mannerisms to throw off any potential interest from others. Getting a genuine answer out of him is like pulling teeth. So, to see him in his element, blissfully unaware of any attention he’s garnering... it’s... 

Just as Finnegan is getting into the performance, Gibson interrupts himself by indulgently strumming the whole row of strings. Finnegan muzzles a sound of dissatisfaction. Perhaps he forgot the rest. Gibson peeps over his shoulder to find Finnegan intently watching him. His face shifts from serene to startled as he blanches and sits up straight, the guitar nearly fumbling out of his hands as the blanket rustles to the floor. The drastic change almost gets a laugh out of him. 

“Enjoy the show?” Gibson asks hastily, trying to cover up his reaction. He raises from the seat and turns his way, guitar dangled weightlessly in his arms. “I would have played a different song if I knew you were listening.”

Finnegan tilts his head inquisitively, not letting himself smile from succeeding at actually scaring the poor man. “Oh?” 

Gibson’s eyebrow twitches before he smiles wickedly, raising his arm gradually to build anticipation. Finnegan observes in prepared agony. Gibson then starts to blare a song by The Beach Boys, his pick ripping into the strings hard. Finnegan nearly slaps the instrument out of his hand as he spits at him to _stop, the neighbors—_

He snatches Gibson’s wrist before he has the chance to thrum another tune. Gibson cackles and hunches over his guitar with his stupidly large upper body, trying to keep Finnegan from taking it. Finnegan struggles with him for a bit, wrestling him, before eventually nabbing both of his hands to keep them from hurting his ears any more.

Gibson stiffens. 

Puzzle piece number forty-seven: Gibson goes very still when Finnegan voluntarily touches him.

He does it when Finnegan leans up next to him on the couch or when he brushes a hand on his arm as he walks by. He notably _doesn’t_ when Finnegan smacks him on the shoulder or shoves him or touches him in any way that is related to how fed up he is. That’s the confusing kicker. Gibson only goes offline when the contact is soft.

(It’s not fair. Gibson ruffles Finnegan’s head and taps nonexistent rhythms on his legs and gets away with wrapping him in a blanket like a bean burrito before scurrying across the apartment to escape his wrath. Gibson is not careful at all. All of those touches mean absolutely nothing to Gibson, but Finnegan is _new_ to this, goddamn it.)

He tries to avoid setting off that reaction as much as possible. Gibson acts weird when he does—his mouth cranks up to one-thousand, words flowing out like a thoughtless waterfall like he’s suddenly been thrust into an insult war.

Gibson’s hands linger, trapped in his grip, and he stares owlishly down at him with an awkward, flimsy smile. “Can’t get it if the strap is wrapped around my shoulder, pipsqueak. Your tiny noodle arms can’t bring _this_ beast down.” He taunts, trying to egg Finnegan on—as is how it usually goes when Finnegan so much as _breathes_ too close to him.

Finnegan scowls and bats his hands down, extracting another chortle from the tiger. “Call me that again and I’ll use your bones as fertilizer.”

“In front of an audience? Dear me,” Gibson purrs, playfully flicking his eyes below the terrace. Finnegan mirrors him and spots three onlookers below, their heads tilted up curiously at the racket, looking between each other and making muted conversation.

Finnegan flames and grabs Gibson’s collar, dragging them both inside. Gibson has bypassed laughter entirely and appears to be silently choking up at the ceiling as Finnegan leads him by his shirt. 

After Finnegan swats his side and swears at him to breathe, Gibson wipes a tear from his cheek and sets down his guitar against the wall, still hiccuping a little. The sound is _not_ charming. At all. “So,” Gibson hooks his hands together and stretches out his arms over his head. A loud _crack_ comes from his back. “What’d’ya need me fer, captain?” He says in a shitty scottish accent, which is just... weird.

Finnegan pinches his brow to keep from ogling the way the tiger’s shirt rides up. “Are you doing anything today?”

Gibson raises a brow and pauses in the middle of grotesquely popping half of the bones in his spine. “Is this where you ask me to spot you for a date?”

“No,” Finnegan growls, peering out from between his fingers. Gibson grins. _Prick._ “I’m going to a track meet, and I need you to take me there.”

Gibson goes through a series of faces. It’s entertaining to watch. “Wwwhhhyyy?” He drags it out and cocks his head, making his fangs peek out from between his lips. 

Finnegan sighs, harsh. “My car is out of gas. I don’t know how to drive your car, because I can’t drive a straight-shift.”

“And the bus?” Gibson asks innocently.

“Doesn’t run that way.” He confirms and folds his hands together. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t urgent.”

Gibson gazes down at him from behind his thick-framed glasses, nose twitching, trying to ascertain something. His yellow irises envelop his pupils when they shrink into slits, before returning to their lazy default of widened delight. He must find whatever he is looking for in Finnegan’s expression, because he smiles brightly and slaps the serval hard on the back. Finnegan balks. _Ow._ “Alright, Finn. That’ll be no problem, no problem at all.”

 _“Fuck’s sake,”_ Finnegan hisses, rubbing his back as Gibson makes a beeline for his room. 

“Let me change and I’ll be right with you!” He says, dipping past his door. A light click resounds (a lock), and then there’s a lot of muffled shuffling following a bang.

Finnegan scrubs at his face. He prays Gibson won’t wear the shirt with the pineapples in sunglasses again.

c[_]

**_Dicktown:_ **

_what should I wear?_

_my hotdog shirt is nasty… do you think can i get away with wearing it thrice_

**_Sarah Connor:_ **

_Oh my god Gibby it is literally just track. Don’t be a dummy_

**_Dicktown:  
_ **

_his friends are probably there!  
_

_i have to make a good first impression_

**_Sarah Connor:_ **

_None of your shirts will do that, hon. Trust me._

**_Dicktown:_ **

_absolutely false. you haven’t seen my wheelie alien shirt_

**_Sarah Connor:_ **

_w_

_Your What._

c[_]

_“Seriously?”_

“You didn’t make breakfast!” 

“No, no way. Do not pull in there, I swear to god. STOP, we are not going to fucking Waffle House before I run a—a goddamn mile!”

“Never said _you_ had to eat.”

_“Gibson.”_

“Alright, sheesh!”

Gibson fists the stick shift and slams it forward. The car lurches Finnegan back into his seat with g-force as Gibson remorsefully passes it by, and despite how fast he’s going, Finnegan is glad for it. He does not want to get syrup in his whiskers. Or for Gibson to, either. That would bother him the entire time he’s running (the thought of Gibson sitting there with syrup stuck on his chin up on the bleachers is... eugh). 

Gibson’s fairly-sized car, an older, red Civic, is... frankly, a disaster of a vehicle. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in _years,_ both outside and in. There are scratches on the sides as if he pulled into a parking lot and wedged in between two gigantic trucks ready to grind it to dust. Some of the paint is peeling at the front, which is normal for the amount of time he’s had the thing (Finnegan begrudgingly _supposes),_ and the dashboard above the glove box is tattered to hell by someone popping their feet up far too often. The seat under him feels like it’s been sat in by a million different people with the way it buckles under him like he isn’t nearing 110 lbs. (“Bash this baby’s looks all you want, but she’s traveled across the entire country and hasn’t broken down once,” is what Gibson gloated when Finnegan first acquainted himself with it, and he hit the hood with a twisted sense of pride. Finnegan was flabbergasted at how Gibson had lived in the thing for so long and even said so to his face. The tiger only gave him a hurt look and put a hand to his chest. “Because Sugar’s my sweetheart! She loves me too much to strand me in the mountains.” Gibson kept babbling to it, leaning on it and patting it with his big fucking hands, but Finnegan wasn’t paying attention, because of course the car has a fucking name. Does Gibson name every item he deems important for no goddamn reason?)

When they had to get in, Finnegan opened the door with a worrisome groan and sat down in the passenger seat. Like a fucking normal person. But Gibson decided to make a game of it and wriggled his body in through the window, like in those shows where they slide right into their expensive Ferrari or some shit trying to replicate the perfect image of a “cool guy”. He almost kicked Finnegan in the face and knocked his water bottle over doing so, a stray foot flying, but when he finally managed to sit his ass down in the driver’s seat, he looked absolutely smug and so, so stupid. He’s so stupid and not cool at all. It makes Finnegan’s body go insane with a sick desperation to shove Gibson’s face in some dirt.

As they cruise along, Finnegan discovers another piece. Under the wheel, Gibson is unusually tame. Finnegan didn’t know before, because he’s never allowed himself to ask for a ride, but it’s the polar opposite of what he expected (which was Gibson going either way too fast or way too slow to bother everyone else on the road, music blaring as he hangs his arm out of an open window with a lazy smirk). Gibson never honks at anyone and only goes a certain amount over the speed limit—as opposed to Finnegan, who can pump out some pretty nasty insults and rain down on the horn like it is his birthright. Gibson will gun it now and again when he turns on a different road to get a reaction out of Finnegan, but otherwise, he’s a competent driver. He’s easy on the gas, and his tires feel smooth enough that Finnegan isn’t bothered by the bumps in the asphalt. Except for the potholes, which Gibson laughs at every time, because Finnegan curses and hangs onto the seat for dear life like they’re on a ferris wheel that’s rocking a tad too much. Fuck small town roads.

The radio is just quiet enough that Finnegan can hear the little taps Gibson’s palms make against the wheel as he gets absorbed in the music. Gibson doesn’t turn it up at all, even as he’s subtly nodding his head to the sound of drums, which is shockingly considerate of him.

It’s playing an upbeat modern song, but Finnegan doesn’t know it. He’s only familiar with the jingles that play on the television and the songs his grandmothers used to put on for him, which mainly involved music from the early 1900s. One of them could play the piano, and he had the privilege of sitting on her lap as his young eyes watched in wonderment, her fingers dipping into the multitude of keys, a range of both soft and softer. Her wife would sneak up behind them and ting an antique triangle to get them to giggle, or wrap her arms around them both in a hug, interrupting the music so they could argue in good spirits about where to go that day.

Gibson seems to know it by heart, though. He mouths the words and keeps his eyes on the road, _acting out_ the lyrics, like he’s the one singing with the lungs of an athlete. There’s a lot of rock guitar and yelling, which he isn’t surprised by, considering what Gibson does for a living. Finnegan observes him silently, a small quirk to his mouth, then looks out to the shedding trees as they zoom by.

“You can turn it up.”

Gibson stops for a second, then continues on like he was just an interlude in the song. “Nah, it’s good. Wouldn’t want to bother anyone at the stop lights. This car carries sound way more than you think.”

Finnegan shakes his head. “Take the next right.”

Gibson glances at him with a brisk grin. “You _could_ use my phone, Mr. photomind.”

“I don’t have a photographic memory, I just pay attention,” he scoffs in annoyance, chest puffing.

“I pay attention too, but I don’t memorize where every Starbucks is,” Gibson disputes, visibly baffled before he grips the wheel and wrenches the car in a sharp turn, gunning it again with a manic joy. Finnegan claws at his car door with a grunted _“asshole”_ as his foot instinctively attempts to find a pedal in front of him to slow down. It only meets an empty coke bottle and a discarded burger wrapper. Finnegan really needs to get on his ass about cleaning up his car—it’s a goddamn mess.

The station changes songs, but honestly, Gibson’s idiocy is more important at the moment. “All you have to do is remember the intersections! It’s not hard!”

His hands are still drumming arrhythmic thuds against the wheel—a difference in speed to match the new beat—as his whiskers flutter with the twitch of his mouth. “We’re not all brainiacs like you, poindexter. I can barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday.”

“You didn’t _eat_ dinner yesterday.”

“My point!” Gibson exclaims and jerks forward in the seat, flexing his fingers out with a wide-eyed, amused look at the road. He then goes back to slumping lazily. “You’re my navigation right now. So tell me, Siri, should I turn left into that lake, or right into that public school?” He mutters the last part through the side of his mouth, like they’re partners in crime. Finnegan bumps his head back hard against the seat to hide his tired grin.

“Fuck you, man.” 

c[_]

They park near the track, and Finnegan shuts the door hard behind him. Gibson climbs out (normally this time, thank christ) and twists his nose. They walk together, Gibson lagging uncharacteristically behind, and Finnegan checks both his leg brace to make sure he has it and his water bottle again to know _for sure_ that it is full. It is. He’s just... nervous. For some reason. He peeks over his shoulder to discover Gibson glaring up at the sky like it accosted him. He’s doing that thing, running his hands over both of his arms like he’s—uh.

Finnegan stops and Gibson nearly collides into him. The tiger pauses, eyes white at the edges with concern. “You’re not wearing a fucking jacket?” Finnegan spits in shock at Gibson’s utter stupidity. He’s baffled at himself at how he didn’t notice. Usually he checks things meticulously, gathering everything and checking again and again to see if he has it all. Perhaps he was a bit too... keyed up. He thought Gibson had brought one in the back with them. No dice—Gibson’s shaking like a newborn.

(Finnegan’s puffy jacket is too big for him, fur framed around the hoodie to make it extra plush against his face and neck. Freya bought it for him and stated: “Look, it’s huge! That means more comfortable, right? Like a big blanket!” And Finnegan didn’t have the heart to tell her that actually, no, he’s going to have to lug around half of his body weight. He’ll have to take it off later to run out in the cold _like a maniac,_ but it’ll be worth it to see his friends again.)

“No, I planned to have my tail fr-freeze off,” Gibson wisecracks with a sardonic grin, and Finnegan rolls his eyes so hard they reach the sky. He’s so dramatic. It’s only about 50 degrees. A full-body shiver wracks Gibson’s frame, and he shakes it out, letting out a short, sharp _whew._ “I forgot, okay?”

“I have to remind you of every little thing,” the serval gripes, crossing his own jacket-covered arms and turning to fast-walk down the pathway. He vows to himself to keep a closer eye on the tiger. Gibson struggles to catch up.

“I pr-promise to be more mindful to not turn into a popsicle in the fuh-future, _mom._ ”

He sneers. “You better. I still need you to pay rent.” 

“So th-that’s all I am to you!” He fake gasps in offense, teeth chattering. “A wallet!”

“And don’t you fucking forget it, Morris.” 

Gibson pouts, head tilted up, and Finnegan breathes out through his nose and smiles. They reach the track field, bleachers framing the giant oval of dirty rubber pathways, and Finnegan beams once he catches sight of Esme and Freya chatting to each other; Esme in hushed tones and Freya with an energy Finnegan recognizes dearly.

Freya, a long-legged maned wolf with red fur and bright green eyes, spots them approaching. She jumps and waves both of her arms enthusiastically. Esme, a spotted skunk with striking blue eyes who is a bit taller than Finnegan, flusters due to the few people around them crazy enough to also participate in track this time of year. 

“HEYYY,” Freya cries at them so cheerfully he can barely see her eyes from her big white teeth. 

Finnegan grins and shakes his head, waving back. Esme looks a bit embarrassed, but doesn’t try to stop her, as she is used to her girlfriend’s boisterous personality. He glances at Gibson, and is pleased to find him smiling warmly at them, despite not waving back (too busy trying to keep himself warm in a pseudo-hug). It’s sort of cu—funny. Funny.

“It’s been a while,” Finnegan says once they get close enough. As expected, Freya wraps her gangly arms around him and twirls him, laughing as he yells her name to quit. She puts him down after pressing a wet kiss to his cheek, and he hears Esme giggle.

Gibson is staring at them both, agog, like it’s strange to see Finnegan letting someone touch him so casually. Finnegan scowls at him and hopes his face isn’t red.

“Not a fucking word, Gibson.” He seethes with an index finger pointed in Gibson’s direction, shoulders hiked high.

Gibson throws his hands up placidly, shivering at the cold hitting his bare arms. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You were _thinking_ about it.”

The tiger shrugs and earns a glare from Finnegan, and Esme giggles grow more pronounced. 

“It’s nice to see this whole,” she waves her hands at them, “thing in action.” 

“What _thing,_ ” Finnegan asks hotly. 

Esme doesn’t answer, only holding her hand out to Gibson. “I’m Esme, and this is my girlfriend, Freya.”

Finnegan watches as Gibson’s face freezes, eyes darting between Freya and Esme. It’s strange and so completely out of character for him that Finnegan mimics him. But then, he puts on a smile and shakes her hand back. 

“Nice to meet you both,” he says, like from a social script or something, “I’m Gibson, but you can call me Gibby.” 

“Don’t call him Gibby. Please don’t.” Finnegan begs, and Gibson smirks impishly.

“Why not?” Freya asks, completely innocent. “I like it! Nice to finally meet you, Gibby!” Finnegan groans as Freya traps Gibson a bear hug, nearly breaking his spine in two as he jerkingly recuperates. 

Finnegan thought Gibson would be more feely with them, to be honest (throwing arms around shoulders and patting backs as usual). Gibson is a very touchy person. He assumed Gibson and Freya would have that in common, but if anything Gibson appears _uncomfortable_ by it, shuffling in her hold with a stiff smile. Finnegan frowns, scrutinizing him closely as she lets him go. 

“I love your shirt! Are those little hot dogs?” She asks, leaning in close to inspect them.

“See, she—she gets me,” Gibson jokes, that rigid smile still on his face. 

“Gibby,” Esme says, and Finnegan throws his arms out at her in betrayal, and she laughs again. “Finnegan has told us a lot about you. It feels like we’ve already been acquainted for a while. Second-hand.”

“YEAH,” Freya exclaims in excitement, throwing them all off. “He goes on and on about you, like, so, sooo much. He never stops, he’s gone for _hours,_ ” she says, pitching her torso forward dramatically as if she’s praising a child for good grades. Finnegan quickly hides his face in his collar as his mind whizzes a hundred miles an hour then sputters and dies like an overused wind-up toy. Freya isn’t good at subtlety. 

Finnegan doesn’t dare look at Gibson, but he can feel his eyes on him. “Huh,” the tiger expresses, a deep-seated curiosity just in that one word. 

Finnegan retreats more into his oversized coat, and Esme looks extremely amused. _Traitor._

“He starts to talk really fast when he’s rambling over something he’s passionate about,” the skunk tells Gibson, “so we know he likes you. Don’t take his insults personally—it’s how he shows he cares.” Finnegan lifts a fist in a threatening manner at her, but Esme continues to smile next to Freya, who is twice Finnegan’s size.

“Good to know,” Gibson hums, and Finnegan decides to keep his gaze over Freya’s right shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind when he criticizes everything I do.”

“I don’t gripe about _everything._ ” Finnegan mutters, defiant.

“You do! It’s adorable.” Freya rebukes, still grossly overjoyed, and turns to Gibson to gesture wildly at him with her hands. “His voice gets all high pitched like he’s a teenager when he gets _really_ worked up!”

“Freya!” Finnegan yelps, voice going notably higher. “I do not!”

“You dooo—“ she croons, leaning heavily on him and almost knocking them both to the ground, rubbing her cheek against his, and he has to put some strength into it to shove her off. Everyone laughs except for Finnegan, who fixes his coat.

“It’s super nice to finally meet you, Gibby!” Freya says, getting close again to shake his hand a bit too enthusiastically. Gibson noticeably snaps out of his head and attempts to match her energy. _Why is he thinking so much?_ “ANYWAY, c’mon! These legs wanna run across the world!” Freya proclaims, giving Esme a quick kiss on the mouth before taking off towards the track. Esme blushes and lets out a loving huff at her girlfriend, then looks at them both before turning to sit down on the bleachers.

One look at Gibson and Finnegan can tell he’s uncomfortable again. By what, he’s not sure, but he’s still shaking in the cold like an orphan stuck in the snow.

Before Gibson can follow Esme to his seat, Finnegan nabs his elbow (which is stiff and locked from the chill). The tiger stops and gives Finnegan his attention. 

“What’s up, Finn?” Gibson asks, knowing it’ll get on his nerves.

Finnegan flashes a sneer before shaking the frustration off. He’s trying to be _kind._ “Here,” he says, taking off his coat and handing it to Gibson. “Put it on.”

Gibson stares at it like he has a scorpion in his palm, slack-jawed. “Okay, who are you and what have you done with—“

“I have to take it off to run, moron,” he gripes and squints his eyes to show he means it. 

Gibson clicks his mouth shut and gently takes it from him. He swings it around his back, the muscles in his chest shifting with the movement, and sticks his hands through the holes (having to reverse one of the sleeves) before he zips it up to his neck. Gibson tucks his hands into the pockets and lifts his head, a pleased expression on his face. 

Finnegan has to admit, it does look better on Gibson. His shoulders fit into it snugly, and he doesn’t look like a bathed animal covered in a large towel like Finnegan does when he’s sporting it. It’s like it was made for him.

“You’re so tiny, how does this fit me?” Gibson lets out a bubbly chuckle, getting comfortable and situating himself into the jacket. He waggles his eyebrows. “Twig-sized.”

“You’re just holding it for me. _That’s all._ ” He seethes, turning to go so Gibson can’t see his face.

 _“I’ll keep it warm!”_ He hears hollered from behind him, and Finnegan sighs into the frigid air, running to catch up to Freya.

When he finally gets there, Freya is stretching her legs and giving him a goofy grin.

“You ready to fly?” She asks competitively.

Finnegan scoffs. “Just shut up and run.”

c[_]

Finnegan runs off to catch up with Freya, and Gibson can’t look away from his back. As they take off together, Freya in high spirits and Finnegan scoffing at her with a curl to his lips, he’s struck at how fast they both are, but mostly at the fact that Finnegan can keep up with her—even pushing farther than her at some points. Finnegan is quick, quicker than a man with legs that small has any right to be. He notices the determination in his face and the sparkle in his eyes, like he’s raring to prove himself; like he’s already on top of the world and showing everyone why. He’s never seen Finnegan with such vigor in his step. It’s a new side of Finnegan that Gibson likes. He likes it a lot.

“How is it?” Esme asks from beside him, breaking him out of his reverie. He jerks his head guiltily, having completely forgotten she was there.

Gibson attempts to comprehend her. “Hm?”

“Living with Finnegan.” She corrects, her blue eyes trained on him.

He saw this interrogation coming a mile away, but it still leaves him nervous and fidgeting in his seat. 

Gibson's mouth quirks. “Like living with my mom all over again. Except a bajillion times worse.”

Esme‘s eyes crinkle. “I expected as much.”

Bolstered by her input, Gibson pushes on. “You have no idea how often he gets on my ass for not doing dishes ‘the right way’.” He says, lifting up his fingers in air quotes. “What does that even mean? It’s called a _dishwasher_ for a reason. Not like the guys up top said _let’s make this to take up space in the kitchen for no reason. Here, have an extra oven, but only if you enjoy your food soggy. Your welcome, stay-at-home moms.”_ For the last part, Gibson puts on a voice that sounds like some sort of posh accent from the 50s and strokes his chin. 

The skunk actually giggles impulsively, and Gibson counts that as a win. “He’s particular about certain things, but he’s kind.” She says and nods decisively at his jacket.

Gibson feels warm with delight. “I know,” he gives her a toothy smile, “he makes me meals when he really doesn’t need to—he complains that he has to cook a lot more since he never used to prep food for himself. But I think he likes it.” He hums. “Having someone to feed, or just... having company. I don’t know what it is, but he likes it.”

Esme makes a sound. “He’s been alone for a long time. Having you around will be good for him.”

Gibson’s nose screws up in a tic again.

Ever since Finnegan’s nightmare incident, when they eat, Finn sits next to Gibson at the island instead of the table not ten feet away from them. He’s apparently made it a habit—arms touching as he bumps their shoulders every time Gibson cracks a joke, and Gibson thinks back to the first time he touched Finnegan, which was the handshake. The way Finn grimaced and tried to get it over with as fast as possible left no room for doubt of his distaste of being in contact with others. But now, Finn shoves himself into Gibson’s space on purpose—on the couch, in the kitchen, and on rare occasions, props himself up on Gibson’s bed for no reason other than to bicker with him. Gibson knows that Finn doesn’t particularly _enjoy_ his company, and that he’s perhaps merely using Gibson to chase away that loneliness, but it is still substantial for the tiger. It means something.

Gibson doesn’t _hate it,_ far from it, actually. That’s the problem. He’s always wondered why Finn forces himself to be near him whenever he has the chance if he despises it so much. It is most likely that he’s touch starved, like Gibson, if he’s really been alone for so long. Gibson will be the first to admit that there have been a few flings with strangers back when he was still working the shop, but nothing substantial enough to satiate that itch in his body that purely longs to be near another breathing being. To hold hands or hug for more than a few seconds. He feels a bit childish because of it, like a toddler that asks to be lifted too much, but he recognizes that he did this to himself. (He was hugged all the time back then. His family loved him. His ex had loved him. He was lucky, and he threw that away.)

Finnegan’s attention is a different breed, though. 

His touches hesitate. They linger, and Finn studies him, an unsaid question in the air.

_Finnegan’s hand brushes Gibson’s as he passes him his plate. Finn’s eyes dilate, brows drawn together, looking at him a second too long to be normal—_

Gibson swallows and grips the fabric of Finn’s jacket in his shaking fingers. “You and legs over there...” he starts, already pinching himself for it.

“Freya,” Esme offers.

“Freya.” He corrects. “How long have you two been a thing?”

Esme’s posture turns a bit stiff. Gibson doesn’t blame her, he’s sweating bullets by simply asking. He speculates if she has been interrogated before by people not so understanding. “Four years,” she says, solid. Her hands are curled into fists on her shorts. “We’ve been living together for three.”

Gibson’s ears perk. “Surprised you're still together, then.” He says, then realizes that sounds rather terrible on its own. “I mean, living with another person. It can get heated, right?” He specifies, rubbing his arm from under its plush prison and mapping the goosebumps there. They’re not from the cold.

Esme huffs, flashing a small, relieved grin. “You’d think that. But it’s been the best three years of my life,” she says, her eyes catching Freya, who’s running on the track with a radiant smile and currently chatting up Finnegan. “I wake up and fall asleep next to her, and it’s... so good.” Her shoulders slump. “I never thought I’d find something like that. Being that comfortable with someone else.”

Gibson believes he relates. He thinks of the warmth of a cup in his hand and a barbed, acute voice. To have another person close, even if his company isn’t technically appreciated, it’s... “I’m glad you found her.” Esme nods, then takes his ensuing silence as a signal to continue.

“My home life before wasn’t so great,” Esme murmurs, and Gibson glances down at her, slightly surprised that she's telling this to a stranger. “Ever since my mom died, my dad became different.” She flexes her hands, as if feeling some sort of phantom pain. “He’s so big. By—By that I mean, the fights were big, and the problems were big. Everything is big to him.” She stares at her feet, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

Gibson listens quietly, not entirely sure what to say. He wants to offer some kind of support, but it’d be weird to offer her a hug, wouldn’t it? Instead, he waits.

“He hates Freya,” she laughs bitterly. “Absolutely hates her. But.” She peers back up, determined. “I got out of there, and everything got so, so much better. Sometimes I flinch when I do the dishes because I’m scared someone’s going to yell at me, but Freya comes up to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek and some tea, and I feel safe.” 

_We make each other coffee,_ _does that mean anything?_ He doesn’t blurt out, even though his brain really wants him to, a bit restless. It would sound insensitive at the moment. This is about her. 

“She’s helped me through so much. And so has Finnegan.” Her expression softens, but that seriousness is still there. “We’ve shown each other all kinds of ways to deal with panic attacks, and he always picks up the phone when I call, no matter what. He may have the mouth of a sailor, but he’s a good person.” Esme seems to be trying to make a point, but...

As Finnegan is mentioned, Gibson focuses on him on the track. He’s steadfast, eyes bright and content. Unexpectedly, he smiles, and Gibson stalls and gawks, lips parted. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Finn smile. The serval’s eyes catch his, and he spooks and immediately stops, turning his head back to Freya with a frown. Gibson blows a raspberry and sulks. 

“I’ve been trying to get him to smile and laugh,” he says, pouting and leaning forward, eyes still following the feline. “It’s really fucking hard.”

Esme chuckles from beside him, a hand over her mouth. “All you have to do is let him in. He’ll open up sooner or later,” she assures.

That’s a laugh. Finnegan is mostly quiet save for the arguments.

“If he lets me stay,” Gibson mumbles, fidgety.

Her head turns, and she gives him a curious but bemused look. “You know he isn’t going to kick you out, right?”

Gibson swallows, throat dry, and attempts not to flush, throwing up a brow at her. Even the thought is ridiculous. “Uhhh... no? Have you seen the way he acts around me?”

“I have,” she grins like she knows something he doesn’t and bumps his shoulder, “and I’ve seen how you act around him, too.”

Gibson chews the inside of his cheek and goes back to watching them. It’s easier to deflect when he’s not matching someone’s gaze. He just catches Freya nearly tripping. Finnegan snags her arm and laughs rudely as Freya scratches the side of her neck. “So, you’re both happy? No one fucks with you?” He asks softly.

Esme tilts her head. “No one,” she says, “I mean, sometimes there are a few assholes on the street, but. Usually nothing except for my dad. But that’s a given.”

Gibson frowns. “And how—how do you deal with that?”

Esme shrugs. “One phone call at a time. He doesn’t know where we live, so he never makes any surprise visits, but...” She pauses. “We deal with it. It’s worth it to be happy, you know?”

Gibson nods faintly as Freya slaps Finn on the back, who seems to be yelling a lot. What are they talking about? He wants to be anywhere but here—he feels nauseous—like he’s going to be sick. Abruptly, a warm touch covers his hand on the seat. He jolts and finds Esme holding it. She’s giving him a deep, searching look, and Gibson realizes he’s been frantically bouncing his leg this entire time and stops in embarrassment. 

“It’s worth it to be happy.” She says, like it’s supposed to mean something to him.

 _It’s worth it to be happy._ His throat clicks again, too much of a coward to say anything else. Esme falls quiet, which he’s extremely thankful for.

They hold hands, both caught up in watching their roommates run around and race each other, and Gibson feels his clammy palm (slick with a cold, nervous sweat) twitch against hers. Esme doesn’t say anything else. It’s peaceful for a while. Gibson doesn’t know if he’s ever been quiet for so long. The clouds overhead look heavy and grey with an oncoming pour, but for now, they pass the time in companionable silence. 

Perhaps one day he’ll scrounge up the courage.

c[_]

As Finnegan and Freya make their way back (because it’s starting to drizzle), Finnegan notices with a start that Gibson isn’t next to Esme. Freya and him both stare at her for answers, but she just shrugs awkwardly.

“Where’d he go?” Finnegan asks.

Esme’s eyes flutter, moving from the ground to the seat next to her. “He, um. Said he had to go to the bathroom.”

Gibson wouldn’t _abandon_ them, would he? Finnegan grunts in discomfort. “And never came back? How long ago?”

The skunk thinks. “About ten minutes?”

He side-eyes Freya, who appears a bit put-off by the whole thing, but then she smiles—because that’s what an airhead optimist like her _would_ do. “Maybe he got nervous. You get nervous around new people, too, Esme.”

“...Yeah.” Esme says, but somehow she doesn't seem all that convinced by it.

Finnegan’s ears fold back in caution. “What did he say to you?” He feels a sudden huge wave of protectiveness hit him. He will not hesitate to tear Gibson a new one. Esme is one of his closest friends, who’s given him far greater patience than he’s ever deserved—and they’ve leaned on each other so much at this point that he treats her like family. If Gibson was rude to her in any way, he’ll—

Esme wrings her hands and looks up to Finnegan and notices the anger on his face. “He didn’t say anything bad! It’s okay.” 

Finnegan calms down a little at her reassurance. 

“I asked him what it was like to live with you, and he went on a whole tangent. And, um... he asked me...” She starts, then shakes her head to cut herself off. “No, nothing. We sat in silence for a bit watching you both, and it was nice.” Finnegan makes a skeptical noise at that. Esme matches Finnegan’s gaze, which is something she doesn’t do often. 

He crosses his arms. Now that they’re not running anymore, the cold is beginning to bite at his ears. Gibson better be enjoying that jacket. If not, he’ll kill him.

“Do you...” Esme starts and watches Finnegan closely. “Do you like him?”

Finnegan gapes at her in befuddlement. “What?”

“Do you like him?” She asks again. “Answer honestly.”

Freya glances at him from his peripheral, apparently also interested in his answer, but Finnegan’s brain is short circuiting at the moment. So, it’s not much of a priority. 

The serval thinks of mornings alone. Cold coffee. Dry cereal. Silence. Quiet nights and a cracked ceiling. Panic attacks that last half an hour. Then, he thinks of the warmth of another. Laughter. A rambunctious, low voice filled with mirth. Cooked meals and two sets of silverware. The twang of a guitar. The scent of pine deodorant and citrus. Dirty shirts.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but. His days no longer pass him by. He remembers every moment—jittering with excitement and impatience to come home, whacking the tiger’s hand with a spoon every time he tries to sneak a taste, taking comfort in the thought of someone sleeping in the room adjacent to him. There’s so much more _depth_ to his life now, thanks to Gibson.

Finnegan’s mouth twists. “You know I would have kicked him out by now if I didn’t,” he mumbles into his shoulder, abashed, and they both smile indulgently at him. 

“I thought so—I just wanted to hear you say it,” Esme teases, a sort of satisfied joy in her expression. “You _did_ give him your jacket.” She accentuates, and Freya snaps her fingers like she _just_ figured that out.

“Ohgod, SHUT UP,” Finnegan groans loudly and walks away from their prying eyes. He blurts a _love you_ as he leaves, and hears laughter chime from behind him. If they want to laugh at him, FINE, but, ugh.

“It’s ‘cause he f-forgot _his._ The dumbass,” he gripes under his breath on the way back to the car, puffing hot air into his hands and rubbing them against his arms. “Too big for me, anyway.”

Rain falls down around him now, drenching his fur. It makes the cold seep deeper under his skin, and Finnegan shivers and keeps his arms crossed. A stray droplet targets his nose. He shakes his head and snorts, irked.

Thankfully, he finds Gibson leaning against the driver’s side of the car. Though, he doesn’t expect to see smoke trailing around his ears, being blown to nothing by the wind and rain. Finnegan blinks. The closer he gets, the more details he can discern. 

Gibson has a cigarette between his fingers. 

(Finnegan had been given absolutely no hint at all that Gibson smokes. No stale cigarette smell on his clothes and no unopened packs in his belongings. Nada. It’s entirely new information and, frankly, completely unexpected.) 

Gibson lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a long drag, popping it out from his lips and holding the smoke in his lungs like he’s testing to see how long he can hold his breath underwater. He releases it in a stream, and the smoke dissipates into the damp air. His glasses are covered in little droplets of rain, but Gibson doesn’t appear to be bothered. He keeps shutting his eyes, then searching around at the scenery like he’s viewing the world through a blurry kaleidoscope. The clouds above are a dark grey now, the rain growing heavier, and it makes Gibson’s stripes bleed into the background of the shaded trees beside the parking lot. He’s strangely...

Gibson unknowingly tucks his chin into the hoodie of the jacket, and Finnegan flushes. 

“You better not be making my j-jacket smell like fucking smoke!” Finnegan calls impulsively, and Gibson darts his head up quickly like he’s been caught stealing.

“What?” He says, then stares down at the fabric. “Ah, shit.”

Finnegan huffs and ducks into the car. “Get in before you get soaked through.”

Gibson obeys, crushing the cigarette under his foot and hopping into the car with him. He’s still got that detached expression, wanting to take in the outside view. His glasses are still covered in rain, and Finnegan has a profound urge to pluck them off of his face and clean them with his shirt for him, placing them back without permission, brushing his fingers over his cheeks and mixing the moisture on his fur with Gibson’s, tracing the stripes—he’s got one lock of hair out of place, and he wants to sweep it back. What if Gibson let him? What if his eyes flutter closed like they had when the smoke burned in his chest instead of turning frigid with some unnamed discomfort?

Finnegan loses that bizarre thought process when the smell wafts over.

“You’re stinking up the car,” he complains.

Gibson pouts in indignation. “Hey, I try my best to keep it smelling of strawberries and leather,” he twirls his fingers airily with a high-voiced emphasis, “but I can’t help it if it’s raining and negative ten degrees outside.” Gibson unconsciously raises his hands up to fix his bun, running his fingers through his long hair to tie it back into place with a practiced maneuver. 

“It’s not even freezing.” Finnegan points out, throat oddly dry. “It’s only going to get colder.”

“I’m used to fun in the sun.” Gibson laments and turns the key in the ignition. The car gives a weak, sputtering rumble. Finnegan clicks on the heating with a roll of his eyes. The car backs up out of their parking spot; Gibson hooks his arm over the seat to twist and check behind them. Finnegan leans away, his field of vision covered by the entirety of Gibson’s chest. “Where we headed, bossman?”

“Home. I’m going to take a shower then knock the fuck out.” Finnegan sighs, draining the rest of his water bottle. He pouts. “Fun in the snow isn’t bad,” Finnegan says, deciding not to ponder where Gibson lived before and how long he traveled to get here. “Think about the snowball fights.”

A puzzled look appears on Gibson’s face at the prospect. “You’ve thrown snowballs? _You?_ Mister No Fun Allowed?”

Finnegan grows defensive. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I can’t imagine you playing a board game let alone participating in a snowball fight.”

“Do you really think I’m that uptight?” 

Gibson glances from the road to him and does an obvious once-over of Finnegan’s whole deal, as if to say _just look at you._

This shouldn’t offend him, but somehow coming from Gibson, it does. “Fuck off. I go to bars, I have fun!”

“Oh yeah?” He smirks. “Name the last time you went drinking with your friends.”

Finnegan opens and closes his mouth like a fish. If he admits it’s been a year because he’s been working overtime, Gibson would be right. “They’ve been asking me to go.”

“Didn’t exactly answer my question.”

“When’s the last time _you_ had fun with anyone?”

Gibson hurries into an accent, which is when his mouth tends to run away with him, Finnegan’s learned. “That is a very personal question, sir! I‘ll have you know that I don’t flab such intimate secrets without consent!”

The implications of that leave Finnegan broiling in his seat. He smacks Gibson on the arm, and Gibson recoils in glee. “Gross, that’s not what I meant and you fucking know it! New topic, new fucking topic,” he hisses, and Gibson laughs into his arm.

“What do you wanna talk about, then? Sesame Street? Beethoven? Climate change?” Gibson chirps, teasing, his voice loud in the quiet of the vehicle. Gibson decided to leave the radio off so they could talk, and it is heightening Finnegan’s anxiety to a distressing degree.

Finnegan knows Gibson is making a joke out of this, but he’s been sitting on the question for five minutes too long. He sits on his hands and hardens himself before barreling on. “Why did you leave?”

Gibson’s hand grips the steering wheel a bit harder. It’s a surprise that the car doesn’t jerk into a ditch. One of his ears flick. “Hm?”

“You left Esme by herself. What happened?”

Gibson’s face spasms in a tic before he loosens his body, attempting to appear casual. “We had a good time. Just didn’t wanna blow smoke in her face, is all.” 

The serval side-eyes and scrutinizes him. “So you made an excuse and left.”

“Yep.”

“What did you talk about? Other than me.”

Gibson shuffles in his seat. “Mostly about Freya.” He pauses, still staring straight at the road. “And her dad.”

Finnegan is caught so off guard he whips his head fully around. “Esme talked to you about that?”

“Mh-hm.”

Esme doesn’t do that. She makes a point to _never_ open up to strangers. So for her to mention her father on the first meeting, there must have been a profoundly important reason. She likes to drive home points using her own experience, so she must have been trying to make one to Gibson. But what?

“I can hear you thinking.” Gibson says. “She was just giving me some advice.” Finnegan squints at him, but Gibson barrels on. “Wanna get something to eat while we’re out, Flash?”

“Don’t call me that,” Finnegan grumbles and decides that he’ll get more details out of Esme later. For now it’s not worth the trouble. “...But sure.”

“Sweet. Waffle House?”

“I—“ he sighs. “I hate you.”

“I know.” Gibson replies affectionately.

c[_]

They do end up rushing inside of a run-down Waffle House to escape the rain; sticky tables and torn booths galore. It’s disgusting, Finnegan hates it—it’s well into the afternoon for fuck’s sake, who eats breakfast half past five—but Gibson loves the place. He wastes three dollars on the jukebox in the corner and bats the table with a fork to _Let’s Hear It for the Boy_ and a few other iconic songs, earning a tired look from at least three of the employees. An old man sitting in one of the middle seats hums along with them though, so it isn’t all that unbearable. 

“We shouldn’t be wasting money here,” Finnegan mutters, hunching in his seat. Gibson grins at him with food stuffed in his cheeks.

“Relax,” Gibson speaks around the food (gross) and swallows, “this place is the best to share good news.”

Finnegan narrows his eyes dubiously. “Which is?”

Gibson looks proud, sparkles shining in his eyes. “I’ve been applying to a few places, and...” He drums on the table. Finnegan shrivels in mortification when the same old man smiles at them from across the way. “I got hired! So you won’t have to be worrying about me spending money on waffles or different flavored creamers for long, Finn, my dear.”

 _Dear lord._ “For the last time, it’s—” He stops short, then realizes what just came out of Gibson’s mouth. “Did you really? Where?”

Now and again Gibson has traveled outside of the house alone for hours, and on one occasion, a whole day. Finnegan doesn’t know where he goes, but he comes back loose and ragged, flopping down onto the couch like a puppet that’s had its strings cut. He could bitch at him as much as he wanted, but Gibson made it more annoying than usual to move him from his spot. Was he being interviewed for jobs this whole time?

“A radio station not too far from here. I’m lucky I have a lot of experience under my belt.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call independently producing a podcast ‘experience’,” Finnegan says flatly.

“Doesn’t matter! They hired me. The results don’t lie.” Gibson expresses, and then abruptly muffles a loud sneeze into his arm. 

“Wow.”

Gibson’s forehead wrinkles as he sniffs. “Yuk it up. Your fault I had to chill in the rain.”

“You could have gotten in the car, moron!”

“I try my best to not stink up Sugar!” Gibson gasps dramatically. 

Finnegan kicks Gibson’s calf under the table, and the tiger chokes into another fork full of eggs. “Wait to smoke until we get home next time, dickwad.”

Gibson chews, a slightly surprised look on his face, but then he relaxes and smiles, an unnamed emotion in his eyes. “Home,” he murmurs, “...yeah.”

When they eventually return home, Finnegan does take that shower he promised himself. Afterward, he drifts past Gibson’s room. Finnegan notices that the tiger has already passed out, mouth slack and wide open as his loud snores bounce off of the walls. Finnegan shuts the door tight and lets him rest. 

He sure as hell needs it.


	4. French Vanilla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Mention of being an orphan, Finnegan looks at his body self consciously, Lucid Dreaming, Finnegan has a panic attack on the phone, Gibson is drunk and sick out of his mind (he doesn’t drink and drive, I promise)

  
As a teenager, Gibson strived to be the best son he could.

When he bounced from foster home to foster home, he attempted with much effort to come off as a happy kid—one who would do all the chores with a smile on his face and cause no trouble and get along with whoever said hi. It was his prerogative to be the perfect kid, lest he be discarded. Unfortunately for him, all he succeeded in doing when he was hyperactive and cheerful and upbeat was annoying anyone who had ears. He spoke too brash, too loud, too honest, and his mouth opened rapid fire and reckless at the speed of a spinning centrifuge for astronauts to hurl in. He couldn’t very well control what he said. His brain would formulate a thought, and he’d blurt it out in the middle of a conversation so it wouldn’t be lost to his subconscious again—usually without much consideration to what he was about to say. It led him to saying stuff that even surprised himself. He recalls making a joke about a foster parent’s taste in furniture, and he found himself locked in a room that had hardly even been his. He was too excitable and never stopped moving, drumming on any surface he could reach and dropping things left and right because of his tics. He broke more than a few plates. It certainly wasn’t his fault, but when you were being inspected thoroughly for every move you made to see if you could fit in permanently, every mistake was taken ten times as grievous compared to other children.

Normal kids could do something bad and get a bit of a scolding, but they were still family in the end. As a kid, Gibson recognized that, and to realize how expendable he was at such a young age was... definitely not _good_ for his mental health. Forget about foster care for a moment, he could hardly sit up straight and sit still let alone focus on schoolwork. It got to the point that when he turned thirteen, he thought he’d never be adopted. The other kids were picked up way earlier than he, as they didn’t have any problems with their legs vibrating into the floor of the waiting room.

It's terrifying being an orphan. It’s even worse when you’re not “normal”.

That’s why it was shocking when the Morris family kept him for more than a week.

Integrating himself into their family dynamic was frustratingly, infallibly difficult. They were all so outgoing, outspoken, and successful. Nothing like the stifled meek son they had adopted into their lives who was chastised into submission by all of the previous adults he’d ever met. The dissonance of their family pictures is almost hilarious out of context; he never smiled in those pictures. His huge glasses would hide his large sunken eyes, so he looked more like an outsider than any family member of theirs. They were all settled and smiling comfortably around him, completely different from the mute boy wedged reluctantly between them.

The first few years they had him, he wouldn’t open his mouth. He was afraid of speaking out of turn and making mistakes so severe that he would get kicked out that eventually he just—stopped talking. Every time his brain would have that moment of _speak, speak, speak right now, tell them about that huge spider you saw, tell them about what you learned in school today, tell them about stars and planets and history and how railroads began,_ Gibson would bite the inside of his cheek until he split the fragile pink skin, leaving his mouth tasting like copper. Every time his legs started to bounce, he’d dig his fingers so hard into them that there are still barely-there scars from where his claws had left red irritated scores on his knees and thighs. He was extremely careful around anything that could break and actually mustered up the courage to _refuse_ to do the dishes with a refutable shake of his head.

They were accommodating, even more so than the others that had attempted to adopt him. Despite not speaking to them or declining to do chores that could end up in something broken, they treated him kindly. They left him to his own devices when he shrugged out of hugs and denied to let them help with his homework. They never forced him to do anything. Most of the things he did were to show that he could be self-sufficient, that he didn’t require their help to be successful, that they could just continue with their lives and not bother themselves over how he was coping. When they put him in school, he buried himself from his toes to his nose in his studies and made straight A’s on every subject. He couldn’t be perfect in other ways, but he could force himself to study far more than any other kid in his classes. It took him twice the effort (usually with him sitting at his desk and idling for hours until his brain cooperated with him), but he did it with no objections. He could be the kid they deserved.

They never did get him to talk. 

Iza, though.

Iza never left him alone.

She’d stomp into his room and complain about classmates that picked on her about her weight. She’d leap onto his back and yell _“Octopus attack, octopus attack!”_ —despite her being older. She’d talk to him about anything and everything on her mind, and it reminded him so much of his older self that he’d flinch whenever she playfully ribbed her parents or squealed about a cartoon. She didn’t seem to notice, as that was seen as normal in their household. Iza’s parents would holler over football over the weekends and sing so loud in the shower he could hear it through the soundproof walls. Sometimes her dad’s voice would crack when he tried to sing _Livin’ On A Prayer,_ and Iza would crack up into Gibson’s pillow over it in hysterics. It was so different from every other experience he’d had so far that it was extremely confusing trying to find what constituted as “wrong”. 

One night, when his insomnia was at its worst, Iza hovered in through his door and discovered him working on an essay that was due two months later. One of her big ears flopped over as she tilted her head at him in worry. She’d never really raised questions as to how he was feeling; all of their “conversations”, if you could call them that, involved her gushing about something only she was enthusiastic about. She never talked over him, because he never spoke, but she would always look to him for any sort of response to her words. His tics gave her some trouble when doing that, but she never stopped trying, and eventually, she made a game out of it. Whenever he’d make a face, she’d respond in a way that played off what she predicted he was feeling, which was the same as just guessing and going along with it without his input. It was sort of annoying, but he wasn’t going to stop her from trying to figure him out.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” she said, voice a bit higher in her teen years, though she whispered, as her parents were most likely asleep.

Gibson peeked over his shoulder at her with pitiful swollen eyes, and Iza pouted at him. 

“C’mon,” she prodded, opening his door wider. “I need your help.”

He used to stare at her until she’d leave, but he’s not sure if that ever worked. His glasses were thick enough that the lenses reflected light like a car’s headlights, even in the dim yellowed glow of his bedside lamp. She just stood there until he relented and got up, tucking his pencil into the side drawer of his desk. Iza beamed and took his hand and tugged him into the kitchen. Gibson wasn’t good with touch—he always blanched—but unlike her parents’ decision to keep their hugs to themselves, Iza never kept her distance. On some level, he was grateful to her for that. Her fingers were ticklish against his inner wrist as she led him to the marble kitchen counters. 

“It’s mom’s birthday today,” Iza explained, digging out a pan and a big, horizontal glass bowl from the cabinets. “So we’re going to cook her some pancakes!”

Gibson frowned. He’d never cooked in confidence before. He tried once but made such a huge mess that it inevitably led to him being grounded again by some past guardians.

“Don’t look like that!” The young corgi asserted, eyes large. “I’ll teach you how, okay? I promise it’s easy.”

Iza often led him to do stupid things. She was very persuasive, and he even snuck out of the house with her once to go buy candy from the nearest store. They were both conceivably much too young to do so unsupervised, and Gibson wasn't sure where she got the money, but they came home with a huge haul of pastel frosted sugar cookies with multicolored sprinkles. Gibson had never eaten more than one at a time, as everyone around him either didn’t want to give him sugar or didn’t put in enough thought to give him nice things, but Iza warned him that if they didn’t eat it all by morning that they were going to get found out. Gibson nodded wordlessly and started to stuff his mouth with the cheap treats, and Iza followed his example. By dawn, they were both sick from how much they’d eaten, and when her mom walked in on them almost passed out on Gibson’s bed with crumbs all around the bedsheets, Iza laughed so hard that she inevitably threw up into their bathroom sink from the look on her mother’s face.

So, Gibson dutifully listened to everything she said as she instructed him how to whisk with a fork, not with his entire arm but with his wrist. She did it for a bit, then gave the mixture over to him. Which was a rookie mistake for anyone that experienced his quirks. His tic flared, and he accidentally spilled it onto them both when his arm jerked back. He felt every fear hit him hard all at once, _he’d made a mistake again, and now he’d get reprimanded for it_ —but Iza just laughed with the batter dotting her cheeks akin to globs of paint. She rubbed off a big wad of it and smeared it on his nose, and Gibson sneezed so loud that Iza giggled high and shushed him. She helped him clean up the mess like nothing had gone amiss, and they proceeded with the recipe. He was understandably mesmerized by her casual dismissal of it all.

When it came time to flip the pancakes in the pan, Iza once again showed him how and gave it to him. He was obviously more hesitant that time, as it was more dangerous for him to handle a hot fucking pan, but Iza just smiled at him as he tried to flip it in the same way she had. He did it perfectly on the first try, and Iza released a hushed scream like a cheering crowd, and Gibson marveled at her, open-mouthed in awe of himself. He did it again, and again, and that’s how Gibson discovered he was good at flicking his wrist a certain way to get them to flip right. Iza kept pouring the batter for him, as she had better hand coordination and glowed at him every time he looked back at her to see her reaction to his newfound talent.

She placed the butter in between the layers of pancakes with her tongue stuck between her teeth like she was decorating a cake. Gibson’s luck with his revelation ran out eventually, and he flipped a pancake onto the floor. Iza just chortled and uttered “floor pancake” and had to cover her mouth to not lose it out loud. Gibson didn’t comprehend what was funny about it, but he found himself chuckling airily anyway—his voice shy and unused. Iza stalled then, not having heard Gibson laugh all that much, but gave him a sunny smile and continued to laugh with him regardless. She cleaned the fallen pancake and Gibson finished the rest. 

It smelled divine. Gibson didn’t know he could make something that smelled so good. They both stared at the pancakes in pride, and Iza was the one to put them on plates and bring them to her parents’ room. Gibson followed timidly behind, and when he lingered by the door, Iza motioned for him to come in as well. Iza uttered at her mother to get up, and her mom mumbled something unintelligible into her pillow. She reached for the lights and sat up, and Gibson watched her chocolate eyes light up at what awaited her.

Iza’s mom was skinnier than her daughter, her ears flopped on her head in an endearing display. Her brown eyes were squinting from rest as she blinked blearily at the plate placed on her lap. Next to her, her husband groaned and also started to stir.

“That smells wonderful,” he sighed into his wife’s hip.

“Happy birthday, Mama.” Iza announced, looking extremely proud of herself. 

Her mom softened even more, if that was possible. “You remembered. Thank you, sweetheart,” she murmured and placed a kiss on Iza’s forehead. She had never shown Gibson that kind of attention, but he told himself that he was fine watching Iza brighten and kiss her back on her cheek. Then, Iza glanced back at Gibson with purpose.

She took him by the arm and pulled him closer, and Gibson let out a noiseless protest. “Gibson helped me cook. He’s so good at flipping them!”

He stared nervously down at where her hand had made its home on his arm, refusing to look at them. Iza whispered some sort of encouragement at him and held him supportively. Iza’s mother hummed, sounding pleased, and Gibson impulsively opened his mouth. “H-Happy b-buh-birthday,” he stuttered out, face beet red and heart beating out of his chest, and everything in the room seemed to still. Suddenly Iza was draping off of him in another game of octopus, and Iza’s mother was absolutely ecstatic. 

“Oh, Gibson,” she cooed, “dear, thank you.” She then held the side of his cheek and pecked his head, and Gibson had never felt more praised in his entire life for speaking. His mouth twitched upward in a bashful smile, and everyone else recuperated three times as big.

That’s the only time Gibson had ever cooked anything _good,_ and he’s fine with that. He never had a need to cook for himself or for anyone else ever again—but today, he thought _fuck it,_ and is currently trying to replicate the pancakes from back then. He couldn’t remember the specific ingredients Iza had used, so he had to look up a separate recipe that most likely isn’t at all similar, but he gets the gist of it. 

The smell isn’t the same, but it leaves him feeling wistful nonetheless.

After a quick sneeze into his elbow, Gibson flips one of the bigger ones that looks more like a blob than a circle (again, not great hand coordination) when Finnegan shuffles in rubbing his eye, looking like death. Mornings are great for Gibson because Finnegan comes into the kitchen to make coffee and lazes around half an hour before stalking away to do whatever it is he does in his room—normally looking unkempt as all hell compared to the way he usually presents himself. That, and Gibson gets to witness Finn’s rumpled pajamas he drags himself in with. They are very adorable. (Finn had also gotten used to Gibson not wearing pants in the morning, unfortunately. But it’s still a highlight of his day watching his face go through a precious myriad of complex changes.)

“Woah, did you just come out of cryosleep, Ellen Ripley? What’s with the hair?” Gibson asks, reaching out to pinch a cowlick on top of Finn’s head as soon as he gets close enough. The serval shakes him off grumpily with a slap to his wrist. 

“Who the fuck,” he says mildly, then eyes the pan. “Why are you cooking.”

“Okay, we are going to have a talk about the fact that you don’t know who that is, because frankly, that is a fucking crime,” Gibson states, disbelieving, the spatula pointed in Finn’s direction, “and hey. I can’t make a meal for my grouchy roomie?” He questions earnestly with a cock of his head, and Finn squints at him with an odd look in his eyes. 

“You don’t cook.”

“I am an excellent cook.” Which is a lie. He’s lying.

“Right, which is why I’ve never tasted any of your cooking.” Finn grumbles flatly.

“Details, details.” Gibson grins and flips a pancake. “Didn’t want you getting on my ass about spending too much. But now that the job’s going to be payin’...”

“Better be paying better than fucking minimum wage with how many pancakes that are on that plate, Gibson.”

The tiger glances down at the plate stacked high with them and blinks. He zoned out again. Things have been weirdly foggier, lately... “Okay, so _maybe_ I went a bit overboard.”

Finn rolls his eyes and reaches up (with some difficulty) to retrieve separate plates for them. “I swear, you never pay attention.”

“Too busy thinkin’ about how lucky I am, Finn.” He winks and smiles indulgently at Finn, who’s doing a wonderful job of tip-toeing and using the bottom cabinet as a makeshift stool. His tail does an interesting motion behind him before he sighs, steps down, and also grabs some utensils.

Now that Finn is awake, Gibson has an urgent, twitchy need to put on some music, so he turns on a random playlist on his phone and keeps it at a low volume. _Heartbeat - It’s a Lovebeat_ sung by The Replacements starts to play through the mini speakers, but Finn doesn’t appear to be bothered by it—or know it, for that matter. Finnegan seems to barely recognize anything when it comes to modern day tunes (not that Gibson’s taste is _modern,_ per se), and whenever Gibson catches him humming something (which is extremely rare), it’s a song he hasn’t heard in ages. He thinks he caught a Sophie Tucker song somewhere in those, which... what the fuck. Maybe he _is_ living with an old man. Finn has never explicitly stated his age, but he looks young, if not younger than Gibson himself. It’s kind of ridiculous. 

That’s part of the reason why Gibson’s missions are piling up. He wants to help Finnegan experience new things: new flavors, new songs, new movies (as soon as Gibson convinces Finn to let him buy a laptop since Finn dropped cable a while ago). It’s gotten to the point that Gibson has been thinking about taking him to see a movie, which—yeah, a bit overconfident there and may be overstepping, but he’s never seen Finn in a setting where he’d jitter excitedly over a scene or loosely dance to a song. He wants to take Finn out of that prickly head of his for a second and help him relax. They’re friends now—or at least, Gibson perceives them as such. He wants Finn to have fun! That’s reasonable. Finn wouldn’t read too much into that, right?

 _Never in a million years, Morris,_ Finn bites unbidden in his head.

He needs to hear him laugh. Just once. It would be enough.

Unfortunately, the “I’ll Feed All You Fuckers” apron doesn’t appear to have been noticed yet, as Gibson has had it tied around his waist this entire time. Finn must still be in his morning zombie state. Gibson seizes the opportunity to lightly bounce in place to the fast rhythm of the heavy drums.

“Coffee?” Gibson proposes, stretching to turn on Dolly with a shimmy.

“Mmgh,” Finn grunts after having gotten everything out and sits down on the left seat of the island. As per usual.

Gibson lifts the last blob of a pancake and stacks it on top of the others. “Some of them may be burnt.”

“Mmh.”

“Or disfigured.”

“What happened to being a _good_ cook?” Finn grumbles, and Gibson quirks a smile. Finn is not as spunky when he’s tired.

“Never said I was Chef Ramsay,” he says cheekily, topping the plates and bringing them over to Finn. The serval dazedly takes one and reaches out a hand for some syrup. Which Gibson hasn’t gotten out yet. “Whoops, hold on—“ Gibson opens the kitchen closet and hunts around. There’s not much, not that that’s surprising at all. He leans on his toes to look high, then gets on his knees to peer below despite one of them popping in protest. 

“Uh,” he starts and sniffs, peeking back at Finn, who looks peeved and bleary. Finn’s mouth thins when he notices Gibson giving him a sheepish, hedged grin.

“What.”

“There’s no syrup.”

Finnegan doesn’t get up to pummel him, but it’s a near thing with how his eyes flash. “And you didn’t think to _check_ before making pancakes?” 

“Wait, wait, wait! Before you rip my head off,” Gibson says rapid-fire as he reaches up and grabs a container shaped like a bear, then holds it up like he’s showcasing a valuable briefcase on Deal or No Deal. “We could—“

“If you even _think_ of suggesting using the _smidge_ of honey I have left as a substitute, I will pour hot coffee down your shirt.” Finnegan exerts, pupils thinned into slits and claws digging into the counter. 

The coffee hasn’t even been made yet. Gibson freezes in his current position, bear sitting innocuously on his palm. Both of their eyes flick from the bear back to each other. Finnegan stares broodily at him. Gibson twitches an eyebrow up and wiggles the bear enticingly. _Look at me, I’m delicious._

“Ugh,” Finn groans, backing down, “just try not to use too much.”

Gibson grins triumphantly. “Yessir,” he declares and plops down the bear in front of Finn. He glares down at it in what looks like regret, but he pops it open and drizzles it on his pancakes anyway. Resigned.

“This is so unhealthy,” Finn grouses, a deep exhale leaving his chest. 

Gibson smothers a smile by fetching their mugs from the cabinet and brewing their coffee. After Finnegan’s is done and Gibson has to wait for his, he nabs another new flavor of creamer—a running joke, he’s decided—and pours it in. French Vanilla this time. As Paul Westerberg hollers the line _“listen to my heart pound, listen to my love sound”,_ Gibson bobs his head as he stirs in the creamer and hands off Finnegan’s mug to him. 

Finn takes it without issue, ignoring the fact that it’s not black, and is currently looking at his fork like it has offended him somehow. An obvious cut has been made into the food, and some of it is missing. Gibson bites his lower lip, running his tongue over a rough spot.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Gibson asks, tentative, and takes the handle of his mug after it’s done, stirring in the creamer. The furrow in Finn’s brow deepens.

Finn slowly chews, then swallows. Looks at his plate. “I’m really fucking mad.”

Gibson smiles. ”Why?”

”It’s actually edible.” He confesses. 

Gibson chortles and sticks the stirrer in his mouth. He twangs it like a cowboy with a piece of hay trapped in between his lips. “I’m a fuckin’ genius, wha’ can I say?” He declares in a southern accent.

“This shouldn’t be this good.”

“Who says?” He asks after plucking it out and taking a sip of the new blend. It tastes nice, and he peers into the cup with wider eyes. Hm. He slants back against the counter, bemused. “Not me. Once again, the idiot was right. You’re welcome.”

Finn’s whiskers twitch, seemingly itching to respond, but he simply takes another bite to muffle any sort of retort. Gibson huffs in laughter and prepares his own plate, taking his seat next to the serval. Finnegan unconsciously leans toward him, bumping their arms, and Gibson soaks in the contact like a dry sponge. Finn passes him the honey, brow raised expectantly, and Gibson takes it with a brush of their fingers.

Gibson has had a lifetime problem of random things ricocheting in his head like a rubber ball bouncing endlessly in a glass box; things like commercial jingles or a phrase someone had said around him once that intrusively stuck to his brain like gorilla glue. But he finds a lot of these small moments filling that void instead; stubborn in their repetition. Innocent touches, companionable silence with music playing to fill the void.

He missed this. Enjoying someone else in his space, sharing air and meals like family. He recalls Iza kicking his ankles under the table with mischievous ease, so comfortable around each other that they could read what the other was thinking with just a glance. Now, he gently knocks Finn’s shin as he drizzles his pancakes in honey. Finn recuperates after a second, and Gibson thinks to himself if Finn wasn’t so distracted, he would kick back harder or make a face instead of going along with it. Gibson cuts into it and gently places the food onto his tongue. 

It’s sweet. He feels a twinge of guilt for enjoying it, for using a bit too much honey despite Finn’s warning, but it’s so, so good. To get a reaction, he swoons theatrically over the flavor and rocks back in his stool, letting out a noise not meant for young ears, and pulls the fork from his mouth slowly to savor it.

A low exhale sounds next to him, and Gibson peeks at Finn to find him slouching his shoulders and rolling his eyes. 

“Deadhead,” he says, face imperceptibly indignant. 

Gibson likes to think he’s gotten better at reading Finn’s moods. What each tap of his finger meant. Each wrinkle of his nose. The miniscule softening of his eyes. The tone of his voice giving away whether or not he’s actually angry. 

He _swears_ Finn is amused by the tiny twitch of his lips.

Gibson is certain Finn doesn’t particularly enjoy sweet things. It’s certainly not his favorite if the twist of his face after trying every new creamer flavor Gibson introduces is anything to go by. Yet here he is, sipping his concoction of creamer and coffee and munching on honey-covered pancakes without complaint. Finnegan can be awfully forgiving when he isn’t making threats on Gibson’s life. 

All bark, no bite. He’s really, really cute.

Gibson has an urge to pinch Finn’s arm to see if he would pinch back—see if that would devolve into a childish slap fight or something even more juvenile. He imagines Finn’s hands on him, palms flat on his arm, and his mind goes blessedly blank. On autopilot, he downs another cut piece.

“—son. Gibson.” Finnegan’s voice suddenly materializes beside him, and Gibson looks down at his uneasy expression, one cheek full. “You listening?”

His mouth pulls. “Hm?”

“I said—“ 

“Ah yeah,” he picks up and swallows, “I start in a week.”

Finnegan blinks. “I thought you didn’t hear me.”

“Oh no, I heard you.” 

Finnegan comes across a bit ticked off, like Gibson is poking fun at him, but he doesn’t push the issue. “What are your hours?”

“It’s a morning show, so. Four to twelve,” he tells dismissively, lowering his fork and swishing his mug.

“That early?” Finn asks, stricken. 

Unused to the concern from his roommate, Gibson fixes his glasses that were gradually sliding down his nose with a jerky maneuver. “I’m always awake at that time anyway. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Finn.” He quips, patting Finn’s head roughly. His fur brushes in between the webs of Gibson’s fingers, and he finds himself loving the prickle of it. The serval grimaces but doesn’t shove him off, which is a change.

“Yeah, wonder why,” Finnegan mutters with a familiar glare, and Gibson drops his hand and chugs his coffee to avoid blurting out anything incriminating.

Recently, Finn won’t stop fucking staring.

Gibson has familiarized himself with living under constant scrutiny like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, wings delicate and frayed like cheap tissue paper. He’s never been studied for so long; so _thoroughly._ No one put in the effort, and he liked it that way. Though Finnegan certainly isn’t timid about giving Gibson those looks, observing him like wildlife while he does whatever mundane activity he’s engrossed in. But this is distinctly different. This is because of Esme. Gibson _knows_ that’s what it is—Finn’s caramel eyes have had a cutting, frustrated edge to them ever since the trip. There’s an increased intensity there like Finn is making an effort to twist him inside out to see the conglomerate spectacle that is his insoluble innards, sticking his hands in, gloves and all, akin to a surgeon performing a difficult procedure to uncover and study the rotten sinew just for the theatre of it.

It’s driving him insane, to be honest, and hell if it doesn’t make his heart pound in his throat, rapid and fluttering in his veins from nerves.

He’s doing it now, eyeing Gibson like he’s purposely withheld information from him. And well, he has, but he’s not about to open up as to _why._ He’d rather curl up into a ball and die in a muddy ditch filled with littered trash.

“Good ‘ol insomnia,” he shrugs instead of asking what the _fuck_ Finn wants, “my partner in crime.”

“Crime of what? Your eye bags?”

Gibson smirks, about to retort, but Finn cuts him off by abruptly bringing his thumb up to Gibson’s right eye and tucking it under his glasses, swiping against the puffy skin underneath. Gibson startles and a stray, stunned noise escapes from between his teeth. Finn doesn’t look concerned with his reaction, however, and simply frowns at him.

“The sandman has less of these than you.”

Gibson’s throat clicks. “Trust me, if I had those sandy dream powers, I’d be putting myself to sleep.” He wiggles his fingers and takes a sip of his coffee. He feels the heat of it seep its way into his chest as he tastes the vanilla. “Not like I choose to be a night owl.”

“Have you tried Melatonin?”

He scoffs delightedly. “Doesn’t work for me. I’m somehow able to stay up until it wears off.”

“You shouldn’t be proud of that,” Finn mumbles.

“I’m not! I think it's funny how cursed I am.”

Finn scowls when Gibson laughs at his own misfortune.

They continue eating through light conversation; the playlist already moving on to different songs. They play softly in the background, so Finnegan hopefully isn’t too bothered, and it helps Gibson to not get nervous or restless with the extra noise. 

Surprisingly, Gibson is done first despite having sat down last. As he moves to get up, he shuffles out of the apron and drapes it around Finn as if he is crowning a king. He doesn’t react much other than blinking down at his plate and releasing a light hum, which is fucking hilarious and adorable in equal measure. Gibson grins and grabs his plate and his cup to wash them in the sink. Dipping his hands in warm, sudsy water is a nice distraction from the sharp eyes trained coolly on his back. 

As Finn settles beside him after he’s done, Gibson smirks and flicks water on him. Finn sputters and bumps Gibson hard with his bony hip, and Gibson cackles joyfully and steps away to dry his hands. He lingers on the sight of Finnegan in the apron, washing his dishes with a far-off expression, then decides ten seconds of staring is pushing it a bit and picks up his phone still crooning music off of the counter. 

He spots a message from Iza.

Gibson has made an effort to text her as often as possible, sending her videos of bugs doing stupid little dances and music videos of her favorite bands. (She had a thing for beetles as a kid.) He even learns how Iza and Bruiser met, and unsurprisingly, it’s a meet-cute cliché. They’re honestly too cute, it sends a small spike of jealousy through him sometimes—but he’s really happy for her. Truly. She deserves someone that turns her that mushy.

After texting with her back and forth for a bit, she questions what he means by the “iconic apron”. Gibson gets an idea.

Finn’s back is turned to him, so Gibson seizes the chance. He raises his phone and focuses on Finn in frame with the ridiculous garment on and takes the picture. Unfortunately, he completely forgets about the traitorous flash, and once he does, Finnegan searches around for what made it and discovers Gibson with his camera pointed in his direction. 

“Did you just take a picture of me?” He asks, stone-faced.

Gibson glances absently down at his messages and starts to send it to his sister. “...Nooo.” He drawls, and Finnegan frowns.

“Delete it.”

“Sure.”

“Now.” 

“After I—“

Finnegan, unbidden, appears in front of him and attempts to steal it from his hands. Gibson squawks and holds it up high in the air so Finnegan’s grubby little fingers covered in soap water can’t reach.

“ASSHOLE,” he yells, smothered by Gibson’s chest as he presses a hand to his shoulder for leverage to try and snatch it, uncaring of the hot water now seeping into the fabric. “DELETE IT!”

“NO, NO, I GOTTA—“ 

c[_]

**Dicktown:**

_yeah give me a sec, i gotta do it when he’s not looking_

**Sarah Connor:**

_Good luck_

**Dicktown:**

_[Sent a Photo]_

**Sarah Connor:**

_Oh my god_

_He actually wears that? You weren’t kidding???_

**Dicktown:**

_lheo3gwievkff@3)*;3)4=}(#_

**Sarah Connor:**

_GIBBY?_

_MAN DOWN_

_LMAO_

_GIBBY_

_GIBBY ARE YOU OKAY_

_Omfg you’re actually dead_

_F_

c[_]

The next day, Gibson is gone.

This isn’t surprising to Finnegan. The tiger leaves now and then but always comes back before nightfall, so Finnegan doesn’t worry too much over it. He simply makes his coffee (black, without Gibson present) and goes through his daily stretches with the window open. The cold wafts through his fur and he lets out a pleased sigh. He craves the gentle snowfall of the coming months. Gibson bundled in three blankets crosses his mind, and he snorts.

Before breakfast, Finnegan decides to take a shower.

It’s not a fast in-and-out shower, either. He has no one to share the hot water with at the moment, so he takes his time. It falls on him like rain—the water pressure isn’t any good, so he’s stuck with scrubbing his skin raw to make up for it every time he gets in. A stream of it travels down from his cheeks to his nose, and he shakes his head idly and rubs his damp hand over his face. 

As he soaps up, he again ponders where Gibson escapes to during his absences. It can’t be job interviews anymore. The tiger has already been hired. Curious, Finnegan washes out all of the suds and shuts off the shower. He frowns down at the switch that activates the showerhead that doesn’t pop out automatically after he’s done. He pulls it out so the rest of the collected water can escape down the drain from the spout. 

Gibson made a joke about that, once.

Finnegan bumps his head on the wall.

The serval opens the shower curtains with a shiver, and his steaming heels meet the cold linoleum. He steps in front of the sink, limbs heavy. The glass of the mirror is wet and warm under his sweeping palm, wiping away the misty layer of condensation to get to his image underneath. Running the water hot enough until his skin steams in the open air of the bathroom is a habit he’s yet to break, and Finnegan hardly uses the fan, so he is relieved he’s alone so he can leave the door open to air it out. He breathes in the humid steam, his head clouding in thick fog. 

Finnegan studies himself with a dull clarity. His eyes and spots and withering expression all glare back at him from under the wan light. His stomach is filled out. There’s a bit of give to it when he presses a knuckle against it. He lets himself breathe, internalizing how _alive_ it is beneath his touch. He can no longer identify where each individual rib pokes out from his chest, but he can still trace them with his index finger from memory. He lays a hand on his side and pinches the pouch of fat there above his hip bones, then does the same with the other side after a short, frustrated pause. He fixes on the way his skin stretches and moves when he mindlessly pulls at it. Finnegan sniffs and leans forward onto the counter, getting a closer look at the center of his chest where a small concave is innocently embedded. He pokes his thumb into it. The hole is a bit larger than that, but Finnegan has never felt the need to investigate it in detail, and it’s not _huge_ by any means. All he knows is that if he were to put his fist up to it and push, it would fit perfectly. 

_Are you hungry?_

He rotates his bottom jaw just to hear the pop then lets out a slow breath. He’s been eating more meals than his body is used to, and it’s trying hard to catch up to accommodate the change. The last time he put on weight, he was bedridden and engulfed in old floral blankets bestowed by his grandmothers. Now, he doesn’t have anything so comfortable. He’s alone, and he has no idea how to go about convincing his mind that he’s not going to revert back to that state in his sleep. 

Finnegan brushes his teeth, spits into the sink, then flosses without thought. He mindlessly pulls on his clothes after drying his fur and steps out of the bathroom into the living room. 

He sighs into the void of his apartment. Maybe just some fruit will do for now...

c[_]

Gibson is still gone by the time the moon rises. 

Finnegan figures Gibson would have returned by now. He waits impatiently around the front door for a while, catching up on his lost reading after spending an hour arguing with a client over the phone about how semicolons worked. (He even heats up a rice sock to put on his bad knee to treat himself.) But it gets darker. And darker. The sun goes down over the horizon, the sky bleeding into pink, then orange, then black. Stars wink at him, mocking him for his incessant pacing after he had given up focusing on the indecipherable scribbles on the pages and set the book down to blow off steam through his legs. 

Gibson is _always_ back before Finnegan readies for bed.

Finnegan decides to call him to understand what the fuck is up. 

He digs out their agreement from the side table drawer and establishes where Gibson had scrawled his phone number in poor writing. He goes to the house phone with the paper in his hand and inputs the numbers with nervous fingers, vaguely recalling how Gibson had cracked a joke about giving Finnegan his digits. He holds as the call goes on, the receiver buzzing against his ear, before Finnegan hears a garish default ringtone sound from down the apartment's long hallway. 

He hopes to fuck that’s not what he thinks it is. He carries the phone with him and follows the sound, and soon enough, he uncovers Gibson’s phone buried and concealed beneath his jumbled sheets. He presses the end button on the phone, and the ringing stops. 

He looks down at it. It sits there innocently, just so, now hushed. 

Finnegan wants to smash it against the wall.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he picks it up and searches for the charger. It’s tucked in between the side table and the mattress, and he has to wrangle it out before he’s able to hook it up to the phone. It’s fucking annoying how Gibson has it placed.

The screen flashes on, and messages have been left unanswered.

Some are from a contact named Little Shit. Others don’t seem as important. A few twitter notifications. Something called Plant Nanny. But the top ones are sent by someone named Sarah Connor. 

  * _Hope you’re doing okay, Gibby! If he confiscated..._



Finnegan frowns, puzzled. It must be someone Gibson knows well if they’re calling him by his obnoxious nickname. With only a smidge of hesitation, he attempts to open the message. 

Gibson has a lock on his phone. Obviously. If he didn’t, Finnegan would have a few choice words about that. The lock has more than three numbers, shockingly.

Finnegan, barely interested in the first place, sets it down on the flat surface and decides to go to bed. There’s no way he’ll reach Gibson if he doesn’t have his phone with him. 

When inside his room after completing his nightly routine, Finnegan notices that it’s freezing. He left his window open. With a gruff curse, he shuts and locks it and crawls resolutely into the chilled sheets of his bed. 

With some stray trembles and a few longing glances outside of his door, he’s out in an hour.

c[_]

That night, a dream reveals itself again.

Less of a dream—more of a manifestation. 

The ceiling is cracked and covered in scant bumps of those easily torn popcorn textures. There’s a small water stain from some unknown pipe mazing through the walls slightly adjacent from directly above him. His body is locked in place, paralyzed, and he wonders just how his landlord would feel if he scraped the ceiling clean of its disgusting dots and all. He attempts to move his toes; flex his hands. They don’t respond. Detached, Finnegan closes his mind off to any possible scares. 

He’s done this before, though not often. His breath is shallow when he exhales, leaving it harder to pull oxygen back in afterward. His chest feels brittle and stiff. It makes him careful to regulate his breaths and try to stay calm. 

Something tickles against his knee. He keeps his eyes closed tight, and the grazing touch slowly travels upward towards his stomach and ribs. The cold hands are flat on his torso, the size of them large enough to cover the meager expanse of his chest. A weak wheeze escapes his closing throat when its claws dip in between each of his ribs. Like he’s still hungry. Still fragile. His jaw is locked tight, but his eyes snap open in defiance to see what is accosting him.

But the touch has left him, and he can move his body again.

He sits up, knowing the imminent danger of an attack is nearing. He breathes and counts, trying to keep it down, as he flings off his covers clumsily and stumbles over to the house phone, leaning heavily into the walls on the way.

He punches in a number just as his heart starts to race, his vision blurring. 

It picks up in three rings.

“Finnegan?” Esme mumbles, voice raspy from sleep. Finnegan curses.

“Attack,” he warns breathlessly, already gasping for air. His lungs hurt and his throat is gumming up at an alarming speed. “Bad.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “Okay,” Esme says, immediately more alert. “Are you alone?”

Finnegan shuts his eyes and grips the phone in a vice. His chest feels like it’s about to burst and split in the middle. “Yes,” he rasps.

“What do you need?”

“Talk, pl—please.” Finnegan hiccups painfully and curls his toes.

“Alright,” Esme says in a soft voice. “Is it okay if I tell you about the painting Freya did today?”

He wheezes. “Yeah.”

Esme hums in thought, then starts off slow. “Mmh. Okay, so, I was coming home from the shelter. I should mention I got to talk to Gareth again, and he was super sweet about the fajitas I brought. Anyway, I found our room covered in a huge tarp absolutely covered in paint speckles. Freya’s wearing this awful green jumpsuit that’s also ruined, so she looks like... who made those. A Jackson Pollock painting! That’s it. So, she turns around with this huge smile on her face, and she goes, “Hey, jellybean!”, like what she’s doing is completely normal. There’s paint all over her face too, on her nose and stuff, so I ask—“

The skunk speaks for a while in his ear, pausing now and again to give him time to interject if he wants to, and he finds himself actually invested in the goofy lives of his best friends. He nods even though she can’t see it and continues to make affirming noises through his coarse gasps to let her know he’s listening. By now, he’s slid down, wall against his back. Finnegan’s claws lessen from their clutch against his arm as he breathes, listens, breathes some more, listens some more, until he’s able to take in precious air without feeling like he’s having a heart attack. 

“We spent the rest of the day watching some older movies. Freya loves musicals, right? So of course she had to pull up Little Shop of Horrors. She tried to put on a voice and went all high pitched and gurgly when she sang with Audrey II, and it was just. The cutest. Finnegan. I am so in love.”

Finnegan chuckles, still manually controlling his breaths, but is able to talk steadily now. “I’m really happy you found her. You deserve that.”

Esme sounds a little teary on the other end. “Yeah. I promise to share the joy when I visit you for the holidays.”

Finnegan sighs. “I don’t do Christmas.”

“Still! There’s nothing wrong with presents!”

He smiles to himself. “Esme.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.” He’s diffident now. “For... being a really good friend. I’m sure it’s late for you and I woke you up, and you didn’t have to...”

“I get it, Finnegan. You know I do.” She interjects gently, tenderness in her tone. “I like to help you. I care about you. This isn’t a transactional thing.”

He warms, faced once again with his friends being too generous for him. Esme buys him medicine when he can’t afford it, and he’s admitted multiple times he feels guilty about it, but she waves him off and stresses she cares more about him than her wallet. Both her and Freya periodically come over just to cook dinner for him and have a night where they do puzzles with a movie running in the background. (He attempted to get them into Jacks, but Freya stepped on one and swore it off forever.) It’s really sweet, and he’s sure he doesn’t deserve it, but they’re always happy to oblige.

He pokes his tongue against his cheek. Esme will be truthful with him if he asks. She might not like talking about it, though. “Esme. Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

He hesitates. “I still want to know what Gibson and you talked about.”

Esme lets out a hedged noise, and Finnegan frowns and speaks over the oncoming excuses. “He was _smoking,_ Esme. When I got back to the car, he had a cigarette in his mouth. I didn’t even _know_ he smoked before then.”

“...Yeah?” There’s a momentary pause. “I can only tell you one thing.”

“Please. It’s driving me crazy.”

She chortles slightly before sobering and whispers. “He thinks you hate him.”

Finnegan’s face twists in befuddlement. “Huh?”

“Or that you don’t like him. In general. He thinks you’re going to kick him out by the time the month is over. And that’s _really_ soon, Finnegan.”

“I know,” he says, still distressed over the fact that Gibson thinks Finnegan _hates_ him. “I don’t... I don’t hate him. You know that.”

“But he doesn’t.” She says, insightful as always. “Maybe you should tell him that. To his face?”

Ivan told him the same thing but significantly less cordially. Finnegan winces. “I don’t know if I can have a serious conversation with him. He’s too—“

“Deflective?” Esme chirps. “Reminds me of somebody.”

His cheeks burn hot in chagrin. “Shut up.” 

He _hears_ her puckish grin from across the phone. “Don’t be so fatalistic. It’ll be fine. You know what to do when he gets back.”

“Die so I can’t kill him?”

“Finnegan.”

He waggles his toes and stares down at them. “Fine.”

“Great. Now do you want to hear the rest of what I was saying?”

Finnegan smiles drowsily. “Yes, please tell me the exciting tales of Freya being an utter nutshow.”

“She’s my nutshow,” Esme sighs lovingly.

They talk for an hour more before agreeing to hang up to return to bed. He hadn’t moved from the floor to the couch during the conversation, strangely content with sitting someplace his body tricks itself into finding new, and as he sets the phone back where it belongs with a click, the silence wreathes him in his wonted isolation.

He thinks back to Gibson listening in on his call with Freya the first day.

 _Your own personal stalker_ , he cracked and flashed his teeth, acting like it was an everyday thing to say.

Finnegan maneuvers in the dark and slumps back into bed with a stymied whine.

c[_]

It’s the second day of Gibson’s absence.

He goes through the day in a haze, taking the bus to go to work and fidgeting in the seat like something invisible keeps poking him in the sides. He’s considerably more frustrated at work, typing way harder than he needs to and grumbling under his breath about how _Betty needs to stop spelling this word like a complete freak or I will have to melt her down to her bones with a flamethrower_ , and Ivan notices. They irately suggest going back home, saying he is distracting them. (If Finnegan weren’t so in his own mood, he would have sworn Ivan had a worried crease to their mouth.)

He returns home early as instructed and goes through the same process on the bus, not touching any of the handlebars without feeling like spiders are crawling on him.

Finnegan takes a few calls, argues, washes any leftover dishes, takes out the trash, and starts cleaning up around the house because he _needs_ to do something or he will _die_.

During all of this, he thinks about what it means to be alone again. 

He used to _like_ being alone. He liked having all of that time to himself so he could focus on the things he wanted to do and not do things that may or may not include working his schedule around someone else’s or discussing compromises about chores and food—allocating different tasks.

But now, it leaves him hollowed out and, dare he admit it, _lonely_. 

Gibson shoved himself into Finnegan’s life impossibly naturally. He burst in his door, all toothy smiles and awful jokes, and Finnegan has no idea how to go without all of his bluster now. But it’s more than that. 

He itches without having Gibson next to him, now. Like he’s having withdrawals or something, for god’s sake.

He’s organizing the living room when he spots it.

His jacket is there. Draping off of the back of the couch. Gibson flung it there haphazardly after the trip, and Finnegan harped at him for it because _I knew it, you fucking idiot, you’re going to make my couch smell like it too._

Finnegan gingerly lifts the article of clothing and drags his thumb across the zipper. The metal teeth press against the smooth flesh on his palm in a playful bite. _It’s fine,_ it seems to convey, _look, see?_ Finnegan’s jaw is tight enough to bend steel, and he’s frowning so strenuously that his eyes are beginning to ache.

Because he is a weak man, he gives in and buries his face into the fabric, inhales— _smoke, coffee, citrus, pine, Gibson, smoke smoke smoke_ —then instantly recoils at what he’s done. Perturbed, he strides briskly to the washing machine—a man on a mission—and stalls just as he’s about to fill it with detergent and lob in the garment. 

_The packet was fresh._

_Unopened._

_Was he so stressed that..._

Finnegan... shuts the washer without tossing it in. He stands motionless, hand resting on the cooled lid. Then he circles back around to his bedroom, past all of the vacant rooms absent of a breezy laugh, and sags onto his bed without a word. He curls up in a ball, the jacket in his arms, and breathes through the rest of the night. 

The house is quiet except for the pipes.

c[_]

_Snow belted against the front windshield. The road was a death sentence that day—the newswoman that could’ve been an indiscriminate actor’s twin said so—but that did nothing to deter them. The danger never did. They let the windows down, uncaring of the heat escaping their shared space, and the flakes rushed in and bit at their flushed faces. They blasted music so loud that the bass growled in their ankles, and his errant thought to the passing houses were:_ Listen. Listen and hear our joy. Wake up to the shouts of the reckless and broken. We’ll raze these roads until our throats turn hoarse and our tires erode to dust. 

_The first swig of alcohol was good. The following bottles were effervescent. Minds oozed into thoughtless seas of senseless, unending being; hooting out into the open air like children playing Cops and Robbers on the playground covered with mulch. They sang with the lyrics of the outraged, radiant and free, ingested smoke leaking out of the windows in a collective flurry. The beer in his hand had gotten colder. His fingers had turned numb._

_They started to skid._

He hacks a violent series of uncontrollable coughs into his elbow, and someone frantically takes him by the arm.

c[_]

A loud clatter sounds from the apartment door. 

Finnegan jerks awake. His face is tucked into familiar-smelling fabric. Not allowing himself to think on what he’s done, he shoves the jacket quickly under his pillow and shoots to his feet. The clock reads 11:32 pm. Finnegan tip-toes out from his bedroom into the hallway after nabbing a wooden baseball bat from his closet. 

A groan and a curse come from the person invading his home, and he distinctly hears shoes being thrown on the ground, bouncing a bit before falling still. Then, a large _thwump_.

Finnegan holds his breath as he rounds the corner. 

He readies the bat. 

A striped tail peeks out above the large couch cushions. 

Finnegan stalls. “Gibson?” He calls and drops his weapon to the floor. 

“Finn,” the tiger’s voice is sore and hoarse, “hey.”

It’s pitiful. The tone is deep and rasping, and Finnegan realizes that something is genuinely wrong. He zips over and grips the edge of the armrest, finding Gibson slumped on his stomach in exhaustion. 

“Jesus,” he mutters because Gibson reeks of sweat and alcohol and ash, and it becomes glaringly obvious that Gibson is a distressing amount of inebriated. The tiger’s pelt is matted, damp and feverish; sticking to itself in tangled clumps that fuck with the natural contours of his fur patterns. “What the hell happened to you?” 

“Ate shit.”

The words are slurred and muffled into the plush cushions, barely thought out—his rimmed glasses crushed crooked into his face. His clothes are rumpled and unkempt, socks mismatched and shoes flung on the ground apart from each other. Finnegan frowns at the mess but nudges Gibson’s side so he’ll flip over. He does so with a groan, and Finnegan rests the back of his hand to Gibson’s forehead. Gibson makes a face, and as Finnegan dreaded, it’s broiling.

“You’re fucking hot.” He says in alarm.

Gibson emits a distorted giggle and gently takes Finnegan’s wrist. His fingers engulf Finnegan’s, and the tiger’s magnified eyes fixate on him after a few seconds. “Are ya buttering me up or somethin’?”

There’s evidence of smudging from where his eyelids were shoved against the center of his glasses, and Finnegan longs to pinch them off to clean them.

“You’re insane,” he remarks to conceal the building worry, blinking down at him in concern. “You shouldn’t drink alcohol when you have a fucking fever. What the fuck were you thinking? Did you drive here?”

”So many questions.” He sighs petulantly and doesn’t answer, dropping the serval’s hand. Finnegan bristles.

“You need to take a shower.”

“Nooo,” Gibson whines, squirming like a worm under the sun. “Don’t make me get up. I promise I’ll do all of the dishes for a week if you let me crash. No, a month.”

”Take your clothes off, they stink.”

”So forward.”

“Stop being a _jackass._ ” Finnegan bites and marches over to pick up his shoes, positioning them neatly against the wall near the entryway. “Can you stand?”

Gibson grunts and feebly waves his arm. “Don’t wanna.”

“Oh for—“ 

Finnegan steps forward and wrangles Gibson to his feet. Gibson doesn’t make it easy for him, clumsily leaning himself on Finnegan’s lithe frame in what he’s certain is spite. The serval grimaces in disgust at the smell of alcohol on his breath but weathers it; he cares more about his health right now. Finnegan hooks Gibson’s arm around his shoulder to lug him, but a fat lot of good it does him—Gibson purposefully drags his legs and half of his body weight the entire way there. After a few pointed threats, he is able to dump Gibson onto the toilet seat before he turns on the tap for a bath. He holds his hand under the faucet until it’s nice and warm and places the stopper in the drain.

“Wait here.” Finnegan orders and rushes out to fetch him a glass of water. 

When he comes back, Gibson is pouting and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, appearing to be having some trouble.

“Oh my god can you not do one simple thing,” he grouses without any heat and sets the glass on the counter with a hushed _clink._ He steps in front of him and bats the tiger’s clumsy fingers away to kneel on one knee and take over. Gibson doesn’t object when he does so, only submissively sits still, so Finnegan concludes he is not overstepping. Gibson is _big_. Finnegan has to sit in between his open legs to even _get_ to his shirt. It’s horrible, and he shoves the resulting thoughts and possible implications deep into the faraway corners of his mind to not go into a spiral.

Gibson shifts as Finnegan continues, and he glances up to gauge how he’s feeling. If Gibson is uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it—he simply breathes in deep and watches with a detached interest. When Finnegan's hands travel down with each loosened button, silky material making quiet shushing noises, the serval grows painfully more aware that Gibson isn’t wearing an undershirt. He can feel Gibson’s slow breaths on his scalp, and he sees Gibson’s hands curling and uncurling at his sides. As the expanse of his chest is gradually exposed, Finnegan forces himself to only focus on the task at hand and to not think about how wide the chest is in front of him. 

It helps that Gibson smells fucking awful.

It’s also alarming that Gibson trusts him so much to do this when they’ve only known each other for a few weeks. A disarming, sharp warmth sweeps up from his collarbones to his ears. He grumbles expletives under his breath and doesn’t meet the tiger’s eyes again, right up until he’s done and straightening himself.

Gibson’s face is entirely too close. Finnegan’s breath catches at their proximity, and it’s only after a startling moment that he notices the flummoxed expression on Gibson’s face. 

“You don’t smoke.”

A simple enough statement. It sounds like it comes out of nowhere, but Finnegan knows why Gibson uttered it. Where the thought originated. He shoots up to his feet. 

“There’s water for you on the counter. Finish undressing yourself and take a bath. I’ll be nearby, just—yell if you need anything.” He gets out, and just like that, he escapes the confines of the bathroom, leaving Gibson alone to deal with the rest.

_Fuck’s sake._

c[_]

Finnegan idles in his room. It’s next to the bathroom, so he can hurry in if something goes wrong. So far he hasn’t heard anything crash, only far away sloshes of water when Gibson moves too abruptly. (He made sure to give him some clothes too, but he’s not sure if Gibson has the brainpower to even dry his fur before he puts everything on.)

He would usually get some medication to deal with an ongoing fever, but Gibson is drunk out of his mind, and it’s not a good idea to mix medication and alcohol. What sort of a dumbass drinks when he’s _sick?_ Gibson is a special breed of stupid.

Gibson has never been this quiet. Uneasy, Finnegan forces himself to sit still, cross-legged on his bed, and taps out the nerves on his knees at a random tempo. until his ears catch the sound of the bathroom door opening. He scoots off the bed impatiently and meets him in the hallway. 

Gibson almost runs into him. Finnegan lets himself look.

His roommate is now sporting a simple t-shirt, a plant-like pattern on the front. Finnegan was lucky enough to find some soft pj pants to put him in, so Gibson looks unbearably cozier than normal. He’s lightly rubbing the pants in between his fingers when Finnegan walks up to him, and his face is strangely apathetic as he gazes down into the serval’s eyes.

Finnegan stretches up with a firm frown and rests both of his hands on Gibson’s face. One on his cheek to check whether or not it’s still wet, and one on his forehead to check if he’s still burning up. Gibson tilts his head away like Finnegan is a hairdresser trying to make his head stay still, and after a second, freezes up. As fucking usual.

”Calm down,” Finnegan husks, annoyed. “I’m only checking your temperature.”

Gibson blows out through his mouth in a small raspberry, but complies, eyes pointedly not meeting his. His face is still damp, as Finnegan expected, but it’s not so wet as to be worrying. “Why?”

He brushed his teeth. Good. “Because I fucking care about you.” He bites. “Now shut up.”

The tiger’s eyes widen, but otherwise he shuts his mouth as instructed. He’s still hot, but with the bath, Finnegan is sure he’ll be feeling a bit better by tomorrow. He still wishes he could get some medicine in him, but settles with pulling Gibson to his room and laying him down. 

“Did you eat?” Finnegan asks. Gibson winces and stares at his hands, which is enough of an answer. “Could you keep down something easy?”

Gibson purses his lips, trying to blink away the fogginess in his vision. “I guesso.”

“Good. I’ll be right back.” He mumbles curtly and leaves Gibson to stew on his mistakes. He decides to heat up some soup in the microwave, because Finnegan doesn’t want to go through the trouble of making something good.

He comes back to Gibson counting the fingers on his hand with slight nods of his head. It’s odd, but Finnegan brushes it off as Gibson being drunk and lays the warm bowl in his hands.

“Eat,” he orders, then pulls a chair up next to Gibson’s side and sits down. He leans his weight against the back of it and watches Gibson shoot his eyebrows up at him. Finnegan mimics him in a feigned threat.

Gibson sighs roughly and digs in, taking it slow with each spoonful. Finnegan observes him the entire time with crossed arms, and Gibson refuses to even look towards him, only at the bowl’s receding amount of soup. Finnegan allows him, knowing they’ll have an intense conversation right afterward, if not tomorrow. After Gibson is done, he sets the spoon down in the bowl and finally lifts his head at Finnegan.

He reaches out for it. Gibson acquiesces with a grimace, and Finnegan rests it on the side table and remains in the chair. It’s obvious to Gibson now that they are going to _talk about it_ , since his hands are wringing in the sheets nervously. 

Finnegan taps his arm. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Gibson frowns. “What, havin’ a drink?”

“I don’t care if you’ve had a drink or two,” Finnegan asserts, “that’s fine. But I do care when you do it irresponsibly.”

He huffs. “I’m ‘n adult, I can handle myself. You don’t hafta coddle me, Finn.”

He hisses through his teeth. “For the last _fucking_ time, my name isn’t—“ he spits with venom, then cuts himself off with a quick inhale. He rests his palms together and puts them over his mouth to mask his anger.

Gibson pauses at this. “Are you actually mad?”

“Yes!” Finnegan breaks, incredulous, and throws his hands in the air. “You were gone for three fucking days, you left your phone here so I had no idea if you were okay, and you came back sick, _SICK_ , and wasted out of your goddamn mind! How am I _not_ supposed to be mad, fuckwit?!” 

The tiger flinches throughout his tirade, headache taking its toll. 

Finnegan notices and reigns himself in a tad. “God, just...” He laments and rubs his forehead. “Be more careful. Please?”

Gibson nods wordlessly after a moment, seeming bewildered at Finnegan’s outburst, and Finnegan can’t help but feel muddled at that. Has Gibson never had people get mad at him for shit like this before? Worry about him? Something cold drops in his stomach.

“Lay down.” Finnegan says, voice softer.

His eyes search Finnegan’s, then he obeys and pulls the covers over himself with a shimmy, still facing him. Finnegan takes the chance to take off Gibson’s glasses and fold them, placing them next to the empty bowl. Gibson blinks, caught off guard by the gesture.

“Get some sleep.” He’s whispering now. “I’ll help you in the morning.”

Gibson lets out a content exhale and closes his eyes, rubbing his head into the pillow to get comfortable. “I’ll hold you to it,” he mumbles, and eventually, his breaths even out, deep and slow. Finnegan observes him candidly with troubled thoughts, watching him throughout the night as long as he can. His eyes droop in exhaustion, and the back of his head taps the backrest of the chair. 

_Yes. This will most certainly be difficult. For both of us._


End file.
